When the last song has been sung and all the artists have left; when the tourists stop coming because paradise has become too transparently exclusive; when the last tuna dies and floats to the surface for no purpose but to better camouflage our trash; when the last expatriate slave has broken free of the chains of supreme hypocrisy and when the youth have lost the last of their tolerance over-dosing on hope; the vultures will turn inwards towards familiar flesh and with bewildered breath the pious fence sitters will ask, “Why didn’t anyone tell us our culture was dying a slow death?”

(via ehentha)

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