And the child rolled its eyes, showed “stop” with its cherubic palm, and continued within its cell phone, in wireless communion with some specious Metatron. I was considering phoning the true Throne of Glory, but knew that if I came down from the mountain only leaving a voicemail, the sea would swallow me whole; like Pharaoh. I, like Pharaoh, for refusing to play Ba’al, refusing to confuse oppression and boredom as a unified disease entitled to prescription. The child was calculative, manipulative, unable to live with itself, and excellent at character acting. I studied its programs, and studied it studying its programs: story arches perpetuated by commodity, instructing their social utility, orchestrating existentialist disposable income, showing no wonder but predatory self-awareness: a zero-sum game for precocious sociopaths.

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