There is no Story. That a sequence of actions may seem to have a
"beginning," a "middle," and an "end" is at best a banal
consequence of the inevitable dissipation of energy. For nothing
lasts forever and events simply occur along the way.
A mind numbed by the expectations of narrative will not react to things as they are, but only in a manner that supports the current fable in which we embalm ourselves. The desire to see some greater causal logic in our experience of a random world generates a mental haze of rationalizing explanations. Dulled by circuses (yet without bread), we remain stupified by the noise of corporate propaganda we misunderstand as culture.
The Earth is not our supportive mother, an unelected politician is not our protective father, but the collective social narrative exults in a return to childhood. Our desperate hopes drag us toward an irreparably poisoned world, fascism triumphant. There is no greater design, only the instinctive chaos driven by anger, fear and greed.
Into this void, I insert my pointless actions: the production of artifacts, evidence that I existed at some moment in the flow of time. Images and sounds are constructed and presented. Forms drift and fade, diagonals converge, the final alarm is ringing. But there is no Story.