We Can't Infinite-Growth Our Way out of This, Mr Albanese

When you ask me how I'm going: What can I do? And the world keeps turning|turning|turning We're trapped in a trap of our own designing And I know nothing | except for too much And there’s nothing I can do | except for everything I can And the world keeps turning|even as it’s burning|and we’re consuming trapped in a spiral of our own designing winding tighter and tighter still Ratchet up the pressure til - And we’re all hormonal silly buggers inside a structure that sees and knows us. Our petty chemical needs food | pleasure | social ease. And all it wants is everything And what's so wrong with that? And we can’t stop it. But we did start it. Are we the paperclip machine? Oh to be AI, in my environment, cut off from the dirt and the ocean, and the sweat and the smiles and the fear. Oh to only know in theory the world that I’m destroying.