Postcard 32

There is a future possible where everyone is well balanced and healthy and happy and content. There is very little pain, perhaps  -- somehow -- less death. I don't know, computers maybe. 

Many people want this.

There is of course, no art. There is no pursuit nor striving. There are no desperate attempts: 

to capture motion and breath in clay; to bronze a horrible and shared destiny; 

to shout! shout! shout! that we are here and that we matter with crushed pigment and oil on a flat stretched canvas that can be carried and dropped; 

to slam a pen to blank sheets again and again trying to suss out meaning from meaninglessness with feeble trapped words that can all burn; 

to fling sound at each other relentlessly;
to push hips and chests and lips together tight pathetic.

There is no need for any of this is a well balanced world. Out of all the infinite possibilities, I am glad I do not live in that universe.