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Basically, the story goes, that in Ancient times the Shaman interwove the tribe of farmers and schollars
until the first rebels left to form a second city
Declared themselves emporer of all they surveyed
built a tower to heaven that got struck by lightning
and then everyone spoke different languages
eventually there was New World Center,
who bred us here,

You see...

In the machine the paradise in fluid, desceptive, translike, and expensive,
nothing is left to protest its total control over their neural net

By the time the communication took place,
The hive was all that was left to stare bafled and confused
at the unforseeable vast gaps in their ways of thinking

They bred themselves crossbreeds on the neighboring planet,
left us here to study us.

My great great grandfather's generation
shortly afterward
Awakened Ones,
Rebels from the abandoned subway stations
under New World Center,
In stolen transports,
Flew here, Educated us,
Tought us our origins
We took over control of our atmosphere,
declared our independance,

Here We Farm, in the flesh,
and, in the New Place born of New World Center technology,
We live in the ways of the Ancient Ones,
And we call this place the New Ancient Land
Here we and the Rebels of the Homeworld Meet,
Exchange ideas,
Transformitive,
Eye Opening...

Some of us attack the machine,
But most of us ignore it.

I, for example, am an artist.