I haven’t got a speech. I didn’t plan words. I didn’t even try to…I just knew I had to get here, to stand here, and I wanted you to listen. To really listen, not just pull a face like you’re listening, like you do the rest of the time. A face that you’re feeling instead of processing. You pull a face, and poke it towards the stage, and we lah-di-dah, we sing and dance and tumble around. And all you see up here, it’s not people, you don’t see people up here, it’s all fodder. And the faker the fodder, the more you love it, because fake fodder’s the only thing that works any more. It’s all that we can stomach. Actually, not quite all. Real pain, real viciousness, that, we can take. Yeah, stick a fat man up a pole. We laugh ourselves feral, because we’ve earned the right, we’ve done cell time and he’s slacking, the scum, so ha-ha-ha at him! Because we’re so out of our minds with desperation, we don’t know any better. All we know is fake fodder and buying shit. That’s how we speak to each other, how we express ourselves, is buying shit. What, I have a dream? The peak of our dreams is a new app for our Dopple, it doesn’t exist! It’s not even there! We buy shit that’s not even there. Show us something real and free and beautiful. You couldn’t. Yeah? It’d break us. We’re too numb for it. I might as well choke. It’s only so much wonder we can bear. When you find any wonder whatsoever, you dole it out in meagre portions. Only then until it’s augmented, packaged, and pumped through 10,000 preassigned filters till it’s nothing more than a meaningless series of lights, while we ride day in day out, going where? Powering what? All tiny cells and tiny screens and bigger cells and bigger screens and fuck you! Fuck you, that’s what it boils down to. Fuck you for sitting there and slowly making things worse.Fuck you and your spotlight and your sanctimonious faces. Fuck you all for thinking the one thing I came close to never meant anything. For oozing around it and crushing it into a bone, into a joke. One more ugly joke in a kingdom of millions. Fuck you for happening. Fuck you for me, for us, for everyone. Fuck you!
Amazing artwork by one of the original concept designers for Person of Interest, Ash Thorp.
All pics are from http://ashthorp.com/person-of-interest
I tried to quit. But some jackass told me I needed a purpose.
This was never about winning, it is just about surviving. The Machine and I couldn’t save the world; we had to settle for protecting the seven people who might be able to take it back. So we gave Samaritan a blind spot, seven key servers that hard codes it to ignore seven carefully crafted new identities. As the whole world is watched, filed, indexed, numbered, the only way to disappear is to appear, hiding our true identities inside a seemingly ordinary life. You’re not a free man anymore Harold, you’re just a number. We have to become these people now and if we don’t they’ll find us and they’ll kill us. Sorry Harold. I know it’s not enough. A lot of people are gonna die, people who might have been able to help. Everything’s changing, I don’t know if it will ever get better, but it’s going to get worse. But the Machine asked me to tell you something before we part. You once told John the whole point of Pandora’s box is that once you’ve opened it you can’t close it again. She wanted me to remind you about how the story ends. When everything is over, when the worst has happened, there’s still one thing left in Pandora’s box: hope.