The man-made, synthetic world, dictated to by the Wall Street Bourse All-Ordinaries bottome line of profitibility, is on a crash-course with oblivion, perhaps in the life times of many alive now. There simply are things that absolutely must be done that nobody of means is going to pay for.
Unless humanity is going to become prepared to work for free as does the rest of nature, there will be no respite, no break, in the relentless lunge of the collossal failure of the Late Great Planet Earth as a place for anything to live, from the richest tycoon with maximum life support living quarters to the most radiation-resistant cockroach.
So if you're looking at cutsie heart shapes of two hands in the sky, or flower-like designs in the foam on a cup of espresso, or sleeping cats on a key-board. Sorry. No smiley face for the lemmings running over this cliff. Only the last-minute blurt of "Hey! -- Beyond THIS point, no rescue" to the mocking crowd, intent on ignoring all warning as the rant of some delusional conspiricy theorist whom they believe is merely another troll out to get some kicks ...
Instinct Suicide (by me, Paul A. L. Hall, Paris, 1980):