The state of the world, I feel, may be likened to an egg being fried in a skillet. This egg once had the potential to hatch into a fecund chicken, prancing and clucking around the farmyard in feathery splendor, laying yet more eggs from coop to shining coop. Alas, its current fate is to become breakfast for some avaricious, ungrateful child, who devours the egg in a high-chair while we hungry multitudes are forced to watch.
And it's not as if we haven't hear the sizzling of this egg being fried all along. We even applauded the cracking of its shell. We approved the addition of salt and pepper. We ordered 'sunny-side up' but the cooks weren't listening. They had other plans: lots of processed cheese and greasy bacon in what they call an omelette for everybody. But all most of us get is trickle-down drips of fat. Is it any wonder we are unwell? If only the egg was allowed to hatch, then at least we could nurse ourselves with chicken soup. But hatching takes time and time is money and plutocrats are greedy.
Obviously, my egg-as-world analogy does require the existence of a chicken-as-world that came first, a self-perpetuating chicken that I believe was slaughtered crossing the road from an agrarian to an industrial society. But did this original chicken only lay a single egg? If not, where are the others? Is there an egg box hidden somewhere in a secret vault from which a fresh egg is drawn whenever needed? If so, how many eggs are left in the box? Alas, these are the important questions only a conspiracy theorist with a podcast and much time to waste can answer.
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