Buried Inside - VI | Текст песни

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All that is solid melts into air. Yesterday's snow-job is today's sermon. A grab-bag of causal narratives and teleological refrains. Welcome to the promised land: Athens without slaves. But it doesn't wash, and it never will. Well-rehearsed conclusions can't remediate the end. When the World Bank serves unilaterally, the burden of mythmaking is to clothe each flaccid turn. To hammer each loose nail. To collect each roadkill. Sovereignty delivered on a plat. As a pillion passenger to southern deregulation. A shining example of neoliberal salvation. Which fashioned the axe for rate-of-return (and cross-subsidization). The gentle hand of economic renewal. The cruel hoax of the information commons. Between the poles of opulence and squalor there is no immaterial. Between the poles of access and control, there is no third wave.

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