To The Entities Of 2111
Economic betrayal? Check. DNA denial? Double check. This 2010 dispatch chronicles millennial peril with masks, missed abundance, and a soundtrack of survival. The cure isn’t policy — it’s kinship, forgiveness, irreverence, and song. Adore your people, forgive your enemies, take the piss — and sing like it matters.
It is late 2010 in the Julian calendar and the air already smells like incoming trouble. Not the cinematic kind, just the quiet administrative notification that the millennium we ordered has arrived with missing parts. You will find yourself in similar peril soon enough, only with better graphics. We talked about it endlessly, of course, but the economy kept waving shiny distractions at us and we followed like moths with credit scores.
We left so many people behind while chasing the illusion of abundance. By the time we realised what we had abandoned, we were already missing in action. Masks on, exits mapped, bitterness rising like a bad chemical reaction. We became experts in escape and amateurs in compassion.
All the best parts of living were still tucked away somewhere, waiting for us to notice. We never did. We stayed unresponsive to our own DNA, like a species hitting snooze on its evolutionary alarm.
Before we get to any final wisdom, it is worth noting that most peril arrives wearing a fake moustache and pretending to be a life lesson. You think you are dealing with a minor inconvenience, then suddenly you are filling out emotional paperwork and negotiating with the universe like it is a cranky landlord. Half the time the danger is just you, overtired and holding the wrong form. The other half, well, that is character development disguised as slapstick.
Still, if you find yourself in peril and want a little guidance, start with the simple things. Adore your parents and your children. Treat sin as the optical illusion it has always been. Remember your enemies at their best and forgive them when you can. Take the piss out of everything. And sing.
Harry is a satirist in remission who now moonlights as a metaphysical desk jockey. He specialises in cosmic admin, recursive nonsense, and the occasional algorithmic incident report. One poem he wrote still hasn’t stopped, and several readers claim it whispers back during thunderstorms.
This one reads like a time capsule hurled through a wormhole — raw, prophetic, and beautifully unpolished. It’s part confession, part warning, part cosmic pep talk to future beings. The tone is weary but defiant, with flashes of wisdom and humor that cut through the despair. The final lines — “take the piss out of everything – and sing – hell yeah sing” — are pure punk gospel.