Our brains are iPods: small and always shrinking, disinterested in quality, obsessed with quantity. Our thoughts are mp3s: squished, fragmented copies of unknown origin; usually a file containing some vile and commercial thing.
In the future, people might have 8-bit minds; thinking in predetermined square shapes; experiencing life, but only within a limited, primitively programmed and compressed manner. This is the death of mystery.
Chronic fragmentation of thought is now evident in our new favorite medium of expression: the blurb.
Art doesn't have to be a struggle against injustice. Actually, it's best when it's playful. but that doesn't mean it shouldn't play seriously and reflectively. The current best music is a retarded child who, during hide and seek, hides behind his hands. If it is reflective, it reflects what's most embarrassing about those who enjoy it.