VII of Wands

Let’s split you bastards. Let’s really hit the fucking road and rocket out of this dead dog city, this whole dead dog fucking cultural paradigm. Let’s wake up ten miles from the nearest wifi point, no a hundred (or would we have to be in the sea?) and ride the tides of fate. In the day we can hide out from society, and at night get really pissed and blissed and skate across rainbows like living gods (all the old ones are dead).
We can live in a hut made of banana-skins and wood, we can cut the air open with razorblade flints and drink the juice of the sky. What can’t we do, sir, madam, what would you have us cease and desist? How would you shut us down if we ripped the button from the console, if we unplugged ourselves and hopped around juiced on pure fucking reality? Touch that, you bastards, touch that and tell us how to sing then.
Oh it’ll never happen. We’re trapped. Our prison is inside, somewhere between the eyes and the mullet lies the death of freedom. Shit yes brother, shoot my skull open and let me out.