To The Last Oligarch (first letter)


Hey Buddy.
Things haven’t panned out, have they?  Your pursuit of dominion didn’t keep that cigar stash fresh. Your existence has been reduced to a mechanical reflex, an inadequate simulation, a paltry zoo for representations of what can no longer be known, let alone understood.  Everyday life is now freakishly rigid in your arms.  You’re in a necrophilic bind beyond restitution.  Your trophy collecting formed a mass grave from the start, a depot for the destruction of everything but you.
This is why you’re finally reading this.  You want to connect with something beyond yourself for once in your life.  You long to surpass the repetition of your thoughts, your willful ignorance, the ruins you’ve made, this future without us (long after money and brute force stopped controlling people, past your retreat inside an impenetrable fortress, your escape from the mobs, from being hung by the guts of the last bureaucrat, from the floods, fires, famines, mass slaughters and extinctions of the end times you so ably hastened).
Know that the rest of us are with you eternally.  Know that it’s never too late to trust in justice, no matter how difficult or costly the situation, how severe the sacrifice, no matter how many mistakes you’ve made. Know that it is never too late to do the right thing, regardless of the crimes you’ve already committed.
Your death will provide a purpose more rewarding than anything your greed imagined.  Now is the time to test the merit of human consciousness.  Are you aware enough to get out of the way — to let life regroup itself and try again?
Leave this emptiness you’ve made and join us.  Let something you’ll never possess replace it.