The children of that era were never quite sure why they would do it. They would voraciously consume culture by the rice-bowl, spooning it up greedily. Raptors of books and film, music and general artiness. It was as though they were wolf hunting in concrete jungles, looking for meaning in the highest, widest most convoluted spaces. They were the Pacmen of ’stuff’. Their logic was rather straightforward and seemingly uncomplicated enough; find a piece of work, strip it, bare metal, down to raw meat, devour it hungrily, rabidly, desperately, look for the next item on their never-ending nonexistent lists. Rinse and Recycle. It’s good for your health.

It was pointless consumption. Conspicuous consumption. Consumption of attempted intelligent delicacies. In their masses they would copy and share and ensure that they all had their fill, their overfill of media. A media feeding frenzy. The feeding upon. Their insatiable worsening need for more. More Art. With their endless categorization and analysis. Division and Subdivision. New Wave Electro-Bass Quasi-Folk Tin Melodies. Sub-Surrealistic Raw-Conservative Typographies. Deep as they swam, they failed to realised the lack of viscosity in their surrounds, the diminishing density, the dwindling substance in their living mediums.

Their very acts of overindulgence in cult items were the source from which this black hole (quadrant two plus two equals what on earth do you know) was bursting from. The overabundance of information and their Faustian need for knowledge was chiseling away at their cores, hollowing them out. In those instants, they did not want to stand on the shoulders of giants. They wanted to be the giants; but what they should have wanted, was an even quieter sort of grandness.