The static gave way to a screen of blue tranquility, though some have interpreted this as an omen of death. Nevertheless, we rise to the sound of birdsong and make short work of the latest, throwing our worthless pennies into the ring, screaming to be heard by any reflective surface, what narcissism is this?
The freedom of the press cost more than we'd anticipated; out of captivity it multiplied like fires and now sweeps planes of domains in seconds, leaking into pockets and spilling back out through furious clicks. The efficiency of this new machine is outstripped by none, and it is us (and the machine marches on).
Clockwork couldn't keep pace with todays race, and these rats don't even need to outsmart traps, instead setting fresh bait for those they perceive as beneath them. Nobody runs shit, the shit runs them up and down the court all day, sorting them into filing cabinets tall enough to require planning permission from the Gods themselves.
The Gods themselves, however, are dead, haven't you heard? They got complacent so we smoked them out and placed ourselves adjacent to their vacant thrones, like "two legs good but two barrels better", without ever pausing to consider the gravity of it, like a child joyfully leaping from a seventh story window, and we've been falling ever since.