Did we leave Babylon, or were we spit out? Is this press pass valid? Are you going to finish those beans?
These questions pester us as we strap on our flower belt and WWI era gas masks and prepare for WWIII, or to pre-empt the critics, disarm them and give them silken tongue kisses before they can point out the surface contradiction of a magazine with heated opinions on Many Things atop the unfeeling presence of corporate sponsors, some of whom appear on the global Most Wanted list, all of whom there but for the grace of cold hard ad revenue.
So, dear reader, before you pen a tired screed in imagined superiority, and before you call us all manner of verbal atrocities, please know that we are aware of your arguments, have dealt with them at length in previous issues, and, like imperfect but ultimately content mortals, have reconciled ourselves satisfactorily to them.
But thank you for your concern.
Meanwhile, deep in the bowels of the Habsburg Empire, our hero, the dragon fly of history, ripcords his floaties and prepares to swim the bloody waters of spleen, and if all goes according to plan, will give the grey structures of mammon a jolt the likes of which they are getting used to.
That redemption awaits us on the other side of the Ides of September is unlikely though, and as our greatest pop bard recommends: cool off your jets, take off your sweats - this war of attrition takes place on a hundred fronts and will most likely last through the visible horizon of dry seasons.
But we at Think have our humble sketch of what clothes redemption might wear.
It looks like one of those spray painted hippie visions of dusk where Vermont farms dot a verdant valley split by a clean winding river, with naked children and dogs beneath a purple pink sky, a big half moon bestowing a touch of the magical.
It is a world without borders where they aliens are not afriad to show themselves, where wooden bowls of slightly rancid green olives are traded for mules, a world of homely beauty queens and of functioning and ecological infrastructures for every man, woman and child; a world of disco dancing and mutual aid societies; of hardbound books and free love; a world where movie critics are replaced by film critics, and where well-adjusted adolescents join the circus and pay respects to the dead; a world where cops make graffiti on the shells of empty missiles, long since gutted because the naked apes finally grasped the knowledge that love is the only thing that can defeat hate.
For this, fellow children, is a law eternal.