The Deserted Diviner speaks his daily news, in hopes that excited ears will heed his words. He knows however, that no one hears his discordant drivel. His audience is deaf dumb and blind to his doctrine, drowned out by the myriad voices of capital. Focused solely on the technological teats before them, devouring their propaganda potions. How can he wake them from their apathy? Better yet, should he? He long ago chose the song of truth and beauty, knowing full well the horror and despair that played the atrocious accompaniment, but his foolish followers reached out for the hypnotic, to avoid the pain. He doubts himself, why not take the drug, with its false felicity? He would not know the difference. He can't give in though, for verity can bring about vivacity, and the other course, however simple, is ignoble. The Deserted Diviner waits on a world trapped in a trance.
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