Obsolete | 2024

I know only how to use a hammer, but all the furniture needed has already been made. Forests have been felled, but Men have been homed, given beds on which to fuck, tables on which to dine, floors on which to watch their toddlers learn to walk. Now we're left with these hammers in our hands, and nothing left to make. Many now just pulverize trees under their hammers, thrash the rubble around. They say they're building something new. They seem determined to get us there. They've picked their Ozymandias. I remain here, with no other tools at hand. Do I stay in my little corner, whittling my tchotchkes, just hoping not to be disturbed? Do I try to pick up a new tool, despite how morphed my hands have become to this hammer? Nothing else feels natural, nothing else feels at home in my palm.