In Alienation of Labour

Perhaps it is because the fruits of our labours, once ripened, falls and falls such that they catch the slightest gust of wind, particulates of air that we, humans once, become machinery and only oiled by money-polies, we thrash in the pods of our existence, wanting to go faster and faster, wanting to do more and more, such that our skins are slowly worn away and our flesh stripped with a slow decadence, and we forget why we’re doing what we’re doing. And Marx rolls in his grave.


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