Publisher's Synopsis
Letters to the Mob Eye asks-from the perspective of perpetual collapse-a many great questions of the world and of ourselves. Eternal questions, beyond the cage of time: What does one do with their condition, life? Is it worth it to continue? How shall? Who with? Can we survive the answer of a bleak nothingness? Can we do the right thing? Can we do anything at all? Personhood reflects its shimmer unto those who stare darkly into the void of society.Letters to the Mob Eye is the first of the NightMirror series, and could very well maintain a place of highest creativity over any other publication within it. In the end, you will see that this project is everlasting; for a book like this can never truly end. The conversation between the world and its viewers will continue, until death do them part. Its purpose is to be torn open and psychoanalyzed; shredded to bits just to get to the tender meat and exciting mission within...A written letter. It's-in part-an outlined grievance of the absurd and hellishly caustic condition of society, particularly within the perpetually falling empire of the United States of America. It tackles the irrational, but ever present "mob-mentality" we witness in our everyday modern world. Then still, just as well, each note dives deep into the individual, shedding light on the contradictory nature of the human soul-the person's heart, mind, and body entwined in a chain-link of tense, irreconcilable being. And thus, in being, we find ourselves with love and sex, drugs and God, passive or assertive violence, and charades of learned moralities; war and peace both boiling forth into a circus of smoldering, experiential goo. We are then free to expand our reference out once more, to remember that each person is another "cell" within a larger super-organism: The Mob Eye. All of us breathe the same air as the other; all of us will meet each other in annihilation. the notes of this letter are written brightly in the guts of our unwitting ballerina, forcibly strewn across an unlit stage. Us puppets twirl, suspended within our own viscera, crying, and laughing and dancing on cue with no other choice.