"Yellow-green decay, mud... slime... dejected human... wastrel burger ingredients... fast-food excretions... fortified grease traps. The scrim floating atop a murky, inscrutable liquid. Odd, delightful colors swirling around in a botulistic mixture. Something that causes a morbid reaction of disgust in the viewer... who fears disease... The Beast of Conglomerate Surface: it has to be a categorically perilous force... the continuation of human bodily existence... This, of course, far exceeds the Pleasure Principle... it goes beyond cloven-hoofed revelry..."
Static reigns in the midst of the screen. You turn around on the escalator - and all you can see is the hieroglyphics flickering in and out through the flat plane of the television which hangs in the lobby; it is attached to an oaken veneer, situated below a plain black-and-white clock, whose minutes are longer than minutes ought to be. As you are drawn mechanically down and away, the screen is halved, then quartered, then obscured from sight. It emits no sound, but the afterimage still playing out on your retina and its associated nerves is exchanged for the horde of words in your brain. Another cipher to keep you busy while you avoid the eyes of fellow pedestrians.
The Beast takes many forms.
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