Hear this: When our masters’ work is done, every living thing will have the status of a machine. There will be no creativity, only productivity. Instead of love there will be fear and distrust, instead of surrender there will be submission. We will replace contact with isolation, and joy with shame. Hope will cease to exist as a concept. We will cover the earth with steel and with concrete, this planet will be a factory farm producing morons to fuel and mantain the factory engines and feed our masters. There will be an electronic policeman in every head. Your children will be born in chains, live only to serve and die in anguish and ignorance. Look around you, the process is already in its final stages. And you, like everyone else, will take your place on the production line.
Colonel Friday, The Invisibles. (by Grant Morrison.)