Quit making a living and start making life! While all you fucking pieces
of shit are out making a living, who's making LIFE? Who in this world is
creating the dreams and the comforts that quiet the dogs of your
existential woes? When you lack soul, lack life, who do you turn to?

And why did they make the pill for your troubles? Why did they care about
you so much that they'd suffer and die for your sins? Suffer and die to
create something, some piece of art, music, etc., that feeds your soul?
Why would they suffer and die to create food for the unknown souls across
the islands of years? It's like Robinson of Albion farming the living
shit out of his atoll, then sending each crop harvest out on the tide in
a wicker boat.

What fortitude did they dredge up to create the beauties you use to
soothe your trivial, mechanistic fears? What of your morals and your
glances and your envies and your hates, yours and those of your
ancestors, that they had to battle daily to create the food for your
soul? You ungrateful money-grubbing cocksuckers, with your shriveled,
shrunken, peanutsouls. Like the baseball peanut which, when broken open,
reveals a disappointing surprise — a shrunken, deformed nutmeat. A
mutant nutmeat.

Men and women wore away their souls like shoe leather, turned all the art
inside them inside out, so that you could wander in Borders on the
weekend and pig up some books, then stack them away, wanker? So you could
decorate your den, then continue to while away your own shriveled
appendix of a soul in the cubicles of Day?