and after I continuously inhaled toxic oil paint fumes, glue, clouds of charcoal dust and so on, I finally got to bed around 3:00 am.

It was there that I had a dream about the future. I was watching it like a movie, so I didn’t play a role in this dream. Noam Chomsky was depressed, destitute, heavily bearded and ignored. nobody knew his name. He was a walking Jekyll/Hyde of cynicism and mopery, because the future kind of sucks, intellectually speaking. The way the world will be run in the future is worse than that last sentence before this one that I tried to get away with.

So anyway, these kids keep walking by him and whispering “Ha-ha! Look, it’s Nom Chompsky! Ha-ha, om nom nom chompsky! My moms said he totes balls crayola!” And every time a kid does this, Chomsky pictures another one of his books bursting into flames in a furnace in a dusty underground office somewhere as a lethargic intern named Barry eats a two day-old mayonaise on rye sandwich in the next room.

Because how could anyone not know his name? He’s Noam Freaking Chomsky, the philosopher, the linguist, the activist! I mean, he used to be on this old website called Wikipedia so people writing stupid blog posts about him could look up his official occupational titles and sound intellectual enough to be familiar with his work! But not anymore, because in the future, censorship is as common as cheap reality TV shows are to the present. And like the TV shows, it is just as embarrassing. Because, see… they don’t just put you on a prohibited list, or hide your work, or threaten your life, or egg your house, or make you the conservative party pinata or even brown-bag your head and erase you from existing— no. They humiliate you. They make you a laughing stock. They make a propaganda infused children’s TV show and fictionalize and bastardize everything you stood for. They find comedy that isn’t there in the way you articulate things, and they project their own delusion and denial onto your philosophies.

“Ha-ha! Nom Chompsky, our kids will make that a thing, and no one will know what it means.”

“Ha-ha! Importance the of and language literacy!”

“Ha-ha! Israeli-Palestinian conflict! How precious. What even is a Palestine? Ha-Ha!”

The end of the dream zooms into Noam Chomsky as he has fallen to his knees, his hands thrown up in despair, his crazed eyes searching the sky for the cosmic reassurance he probably doesn’t believe in, and his anguished cries pierce the sky as he isn’t sure if he’s trying to convince the world or himself when he says

“IT’S NOAM

FUCKING

CHOMSKY.”

So basically, the art studio needs ventilation.