Neither Hitchcock, nor Poe. Just a reality show.
We believed we had it all.
And then along came prophets, politicians, artists, psychoanalists, journalists, anthropologists, lawyers, doctors, X factors, and all the especially specialized specialists and explained to us that no, no, no, that was not all, and more could get done.
We believed that too and so, submissive and charmed, we painted, adorned and worshipped portrays of idols that did not exist and yet it was good for us to believe were real.
And then, we realized that it was even better for us to destroy and tarnish them in rage, and then to build and fervently idolize new idols. Then, we realized that sometimes it was good for us –yeah, yeah, yeah, totally- to criticize and wreck anyone who’d threaten to become one.
And then we realized that it was even better for us –and to top it all off it was fucking cool- not to have idols.
And then, we died bit by bit. But that, we did not realize, because we were very, very, very busy being realistic and not believing. At all. In nothing. Not even death.