Impotence-The Social Disease.

What form does joy take in this, most wonderful of modern ages?
Is it the sneering leer of the dunken youth(which may actually be genuine)?
Or is it the cold, ruthless deadness of the drug-dealing 'man of affairs', with his miserable habits, his miserable pony-tailed hair style, his miserable clothes and his mean-scale empire of things?

No.
These are not all.
These are just the symptoms, along with the grunts of the 'women' who look for a man to eviscerate, mentally of course, before poisoning their babies against the world and against their lives.

What passes for a moment of joy in this modern world is actually a vile impulse of triumph at some imaginary victory over 'others' in which there are only losers.

The target is happiness. The target is mankind.
The method is impotence.

To create the condition of impotence there are literally millions of creatures(not people) that will go to any length and measure of desperation to inject their particular brand of helplessness into the healthy.

They will literally study their intended victims for years at a time, they will literally plot by any means the misery of these people, they will literally stop at nothing short of murder if they think they have a chance of success.

Or even if they don't.
They are beyond cowardice.
They are beyond bravery.
They simply exist for that fleeting impulse, that gap between action and result, blind action and the end of delusion, and they know no other way to replace the fear of consequence that drives them to hide.

They want to create a race of confused, helpless, adult babies, people who can't do, only be, people without the ability to tie a knot properly, or drive a car, or make anything worthwhile.

In software, they are the people who invent ever higher levels of esoteric abstraction, turning science into a church, a guild of monastic isolation as a substitute for creativity.
In industry, they are the people who withdraw from the fields of actual endeavour, into virtual businesses which don't actually do anything except pay for the owners skiing trips or Grouse shoots. Here in Yorkshire every big factory from the old days tells a story of organic growth in the variety and ages of their buildings; every one that has gone broke seems to end with a modern 60s or 70s office block while all the actual guts are left to go to hell.
Along with all the business that actually built the places.

(But don't worry-we're all "post industrial", so that's alright then).


And in Art they were the people who were inflated by the arch manipulators of downfall into positions of eminence while producing images and artefacts of debasement and mutilated form.

And form follows function.