Gilmour, is there anything more?

Not likely.

As a regime passes, musicians, intellectuals and revolutionists look toward a bleak future, one with no color or character. No replication is possible of the perfect and no imitation is possible of the inimitable. As time stands still as if Physics allows it in limited contexts for those who experience it and those who reject it, the outcome is unavoidable. Those who look up to meet the blue skies and the rest waiting for the yellow horizon, those fingers up and down the Guitar stem was magic. Magicians do survive to alleviate pain and tribulations for a populace that is struggling to survive.

Gilmour, is there anything more? Not likely. As the mind empties and the soul slowly dies, as we move toward the unavoidable exit, it is clear that it is downhill from here. It was music that made humanity survive, but now it is music that will serve the last rites. As the human psyche refuses to quit as if that is possible, as the context closes doling out perpetual pain for those who remain, as it becomes clear that the problem to solve is one of optimization within the limited time afforded, as humanity rotes when politicians rise, it is clear that music shall die.

Gilmour, is there anything more? Not likely. The ones who came from the tress in the African Savannah just a few days ago now claim to be superior just because of ignorance. Wearing the skin inside out was not sufficient for humans trying to penetrate closed societies. As surface features and accolades govern societal fractures, as languages and accents keep some away from others, as red, blue and white assure everybody is kept at their proper positions, as the powerful attempt to make Mars great again and the rest cower in darkness, it is clear that we have little hope.

Gilmour, is there anything more? Not likely.