Elegy for Solid Snake 3.1

By | 25 November 2019

The Siberian desert is the first shock: that it’s a desert, green,
inhabited, malleable.
Now there is a shot of a transport ship: we become cinematic.

Talk then about consumption, thinghood itself as a battleground. We are returning to
the beginning. Remember the Alamo, once more, with laurels.

We lost contact with the boss some time ago. I would not expect
too much here if I were

you. The colonel is a member of the Brezhnev faction, and I want
to overthrow the government.

You only have a week, and if it’s not too much to ask for one more infirmity, the
universe is the father of modern sniping.

You were, of course, not born. You were instead
borne by another body; we all were I suppose. Playing these two roles doesn’t leave
much time for sleep.

We can be clear then: we are in the Cold War, or
we are watching it, you and I, playing with our bears, American or otherwise.

What we do here is history, what we have conceptualised here possible because of what
they did, and the technology they left us.

The End dies halfway through,
though, and he has lasted a century.

What are we to do after
the end of the
short century depicted
the birth – you yourself
are symptomatic here –
of another long one.

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