—Did you know, Jeremiah wondered out loud, that people actually collect butterflies? —It’s easy to see why, replied Toby. They’re delicate, fascinating creatures, each one different in some way. Like snowflakes. —Yeah, and fingerprints. —Or people! —Right, people in general are all different from each other too.
It’s not too obscure, but not so sickeningly mainstream. Its subject matter fits the occasion, of course. And it’s melodic, easy to sing to, builds to an anthemic chorus at the end, and for all that easy to sustain with just an acoustic guitar and voice. And the lyrics. Happyish, technically even optimistic, but devastating in their finality, once you really listen to them there’s no going back.
"What are you all celebrating? We’re all going to die when the sun comes up! Don’t you get it? We’re all going to die!"
You might be surprised by my father's wish to be sent off to sea; the sea, water in its unpiped form, disorganized, rowdy and boisterous, not a help to anyone who wants to wash his hands or make some tea, or soup maybe. Yet my father, even if he did not love it, had always held a deep respect for the mighty, churning sea. To him, a body of water was not chaos, not disunity, but instead represented the potential, the possible plumbing system, water that could be piped from one reservoir to another, the Atlantic a conduit of copper that channeled its salty deep waters from the Americas to Europe, the Mississippi a mighty pipeline pumping downstream across the Midwest, unparalleled in its immense and unwavering water pressure.
Those with highly-developed technology are powerless to stop him, and those without technology are powerless anyway...
You’re willing to put up with a lot… until one day you don’t. You snap and say I’ve had enough already. You capitulate, you buy a newer model, so to speak. You’re not even really helping yourself when you do, it’s just so you can hopefully not notice the truth starting right at you: that the world was not built for you. Your home, your city, the people around you, everything, is your enemy.
A pood, by the way, is a Russian unit of weight equal to 16 kg, and I don't have time to convert that into pounds because I'm too busy having a body that can kill a man with one punch.