The end of the world.

Turns out the the catastrophic Gray Goo required to annihilate our planet already exists. They call it money. Greengoo then. ;)

The battered old book.

Our lives, as music,

dance along an iron thread.

Begin and end with nothing,

yet leave nothing unsaid.

 

Together.

Between impossible source

and inevitable sink, 

the river meanders, 

a free, unchained, link.

The single most dystopic thing about dystopia is just how many people choose to live there.

We should worry less about our societies and bodies becoming dysfunctional.  We should worry a whole lot more about the time when our respective dysfunctions align and an engine of destruction is formed.

Is there some form of cash prize?

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