Event Horizon from Anamnesis by Hueón

Mammon stirs, his rot untangled. Unfurled, his limbs count his hoarded accumulation, a testament to his power.

The smell of money in the greasy summer sun, thick and viscous in the air, profit to be made. Avarice knows flesh and walks, finding solace in pain and suffering; there are gains to be made. A cure for what ails you? A sales pitch in your darkest hour? Mammon has what you need, the one thing that you have to have.

A great darkness falls and the air is on fire. What needs be now is need, the state of longing that can only be sated by the one true find. Mammon has the cure, the medicine to pump into your filth laden lungs. Breathe essay and rest for tomorrow you are grist for the mill. The endless machine churns a tired, ragged song, a soothing hymn to Mammon’s greatness.

What is needed and what is wanted are rendered one and the same, such the skill of Mammon, every day the blackest of Fridays. Buy, sell, trade, so long as you have, and have at any price. Grind the youngest up for fire. Name the old, sacrificed to the pyre of the machine. The great machine is all, and all is what matters. Consume and continue to consume, because consumption is the only thing now and forever. Dwell not on the past, but only the next acquisition.

Look to Mammon for the cure at all costs.

• Rock
• indie
• Louisville