The Shittiness of Everything 

I’m walking with a group of anarchists. We pass the Eiffel Tower and some black vehicles and planes. We steal them, for our cause. They belong to Russian Bolsheviks inside a nearby building, having a meaningless discussion. They are all words, and no action. 
We arrive at a park with many vehicles. I sit in a yellow sports car, waiting for the owner. He arrives. I steal a new battery for him from another car. This is what we do. Property is theft, and theft is proper. I talk to the owner while I take parts from another car. I tell him how I hear voices, and see shady figures telling me that my actions are saving lives. 
I’m stood in an empty building. Everything has been stolen. Blobs of shit are everywhere. Two large dogs try to come in. I throw a shitty sponge at them. Their owner appears. The dogs are friendly. I take them outside to play. I throw the shitty sponge for them to chase. It hits a parked car, and showers everything in shitty blobs. Everything is tainted with shit. The smaller dog has a horse as a friend. I go back inside. People help to strap me into a weird commode. A head restraint holds me in place. I look up a hallway. Easter eggs coated in viscous feaces cover the floor. Everything is shit. I have a vision of an ageing band, manipulated by a coke covered alien manager. His head, a bannister, on a white powdered stairway to success. 
The bucket in the commode is nearly full. I free myself from my restraint. Walking uphill THL brings me clean underwear and socks. I search for the stolen black machines, that are the key to the revolution. The key that stops the shittiness of everything. 



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