unless we can be humane our legacy may be our tools
I’ll spare you the pitch; start at the finish. We are what’s left. Huddled under a dome on the moon, reading wish-book snippets of a world that might have been.
( atmosfera n.19 by Giacomo Costa, used with permission )
I saw a clicks-not-bricks before departure. Switched off, the build is all blocks. Appliances poking out unceremoniously. Power on, the appearance is harmonious.
Virtual rooms erupting into scenes to rival the original. An old world café. Lions padding softly in the Serengeti. Visit across the globe or down the road.
Road, figurative in the absence of traffic. Drones put people in the scene remotely. To deliver lumber. Pick up the trash. Crime now as uncommon as the cold.
Labour is for robotic industries; mining, manufacturing, and logistics. Most people are intellectual workers. The artists, arbitrators, researchers.
Hospitals of medical units come to you. Operated at a distance by best of breed. With less interaction comes less infection. Fewer matters communicable.
We huddle, outpost on the moon, mindful of what might have been. Labouring for an industry no longer in Earth’s service.
