The sky is the color of static television.
Stars create friction between each other.
Within said friction, sprawling lights from below, dance.
Illuminating the pixels–adding color to this televised painting.

From a building, looking over the city.
A digitalized hologram the size of Ben advertises.
Selling the latest product
and merchants below–the synthetic produce.

A technological utopia.
Where consciousness is drowned by entertainment.

Everywhere you go, a screen lurks.
The car will sing of the latest in stocks.
How many more until enough is bought?
Money is never-ending since it has become intangible.
No longer a penny left to spot.
Or coins left to cast wishes with in ponds.

A blue stream of notes sprints across atm screens.
They flicker happily on apps.
Urging you to use them now and then.
Investors realized that currency is a weapon.
So, instead of it being in your pockets.
It is now a product of the digital universe.

Smoking on a G95.
The latest tobacco pipe dressed in ebony casing.
With a nice glow signaling that it is activated.
A black trench coat to match the doc martins.

The night is young
and a bounty is fresh for the taking.

I leap off the building.
Soaring through passing lights and dreams of stardom.
A click of a button reduces my speed.
I fell gradually, eventually landing

'Exotic' boots up at the jangle of my keys.
Its neon lights illuminate the damp street.
I hop in as the rising doors invite me.
One. Two. Three.

© DolorTheDaimone