A button and a determined finger are all it takes these days, something that was once always personal now digitized. like every other factory worker, I must now compete with machines. Fewer arid multi-day stalks, fewer tundra nights gazing upon the firmament, fewer sleet scoured crags, fewer jungle scents, and fewer poetic Coriolis compensated applications of kinetic energy.
Outsourced by those who find a remote controlled plane less unsettling and cheaper, than a living-breathing Homo Sapien eraser. Now my actions are confined to urban prey, streets too narrow, even for a Hellfire. Preschools across the street, religious shrines disrupting sight lines. These are society's collateral considerations that inspire a more hands on approach for me, and hand wringing for employers.
But ho! how the Gift longs to stride the steppes...creep the Savannah, without halogen distractions. To rend and terrify under those thermonuclear pinpricks, rather than passionless fluorescence.
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