Howl 2025

By Samuel McConochie

I saw the best minds of my era hollowed out by comfort, their passions sold back to them with shipping fees and terms of service, 

Eyes burned blind by backlit desire, craving touch but terrified of being seen, Bodies curled around glass rectangles, praying to soft machines for meaning,

Who ghosted themselves to stay safe, who whispered to empty feeds, who feared silence more than loneliness, 

Who used to howl in alleys and kiss in chaos, now sterilised by curated calm and faux connection, 

Who became brands instead of lovers, offerings to an algorithmic altar that only wants their hunger,

Ten pubs open. Forty shells in each. A city with a million fingers, none of them reaching, 

Bartenders polishing glasses for ghosts, DJs spinning loops for the undead, 

The toilets don’t clog anymore because no one stays long enough to shit, 

Assless seats lined up like relics, served nightly by bartenders who can only make eye contact with the mirror, watching themselves die in real time,

Who fear eye contact like plague, who trade orgasms like expired coupons, who bury longing beneath yoga mats and subscription trials, 

Who fuck to forget, who forget what fucking meant — just friction without fire, release without ruin,

I saw the night reduced to playlists and transaction screens, saw masculinity anesthetised, femininity monetised, humanity homogenised, 

I saw the death of risk, the sterilisation of mystery, the ritual of presence replaced by convenience,

And still I ask — Where did everyone go? Nowhere. They faded. In safety. In silence. In swipes. In surrender. 

They didn’t vanish. They vanished themselves.

By Samuel McConochie