Posthuman Blues

The idiots across the hall are playing their TV so loud I can hear every word. I can't think. My world is ceaseless canned laughter and blaring political advertisements. I'd knock on the door and ask them to turn it down but I'm afraid I'd suffer reprisal -- if not me, personally, then my apartment. Or my car.

"Sanity" in this society is a brittle veneer. Most people secretly hate themselves; the most they can do is hope to numb the pain. But the facade invariably cracks and barbarism comes seething through the fissure in an eager red tide.

The dead walk.