Workers have disappeared from our life. Vanished from sight, turned into something else. Workers labor in the epoch of management and know-how has been devalued.

Nothing like it. As usual, in the depths of plants and factories hundreds of thousands of living organisms potter around, transfiguring rough matter into sensible forms. As before, in the bowels of the earth, idealists with pick hammers are struggling with dense bones of the inertial substance, violating the passive, deathly comfort of stony rocks. Black blood from underground veins is gushing out into the faces of surgeons of oilwells. Square-shouldered giants with brick faces are rolling burning steel.

The clean world of new masters drives the Titan into an embryonic state, throwing him bits and pieces. Heres your half-a-liter of Kremlyovskaya vodka, hegemon!

This cannot be. The pitiful downfall of Sovdep and its foul leaders is just a pause, a syncope in the terrible awakening of the Titan. The working class has not yet fulfilled its historical mission. It has not uttered its last word yet. It has not made its Revolution yet.

From the depths of being, the contemporary Russian Worker sullenly glazes at this bustle. Awkward and concrete, tenacious as a machine, and sluggish like a thinker. He does not believe and will never believe the social demagoguery of the pinks. Them again? No, enough. For the capitalists, the reckoning will also be short. Only the dense, passionately melancholic power of arising nationalism can touch these solid and temperate people. But when there is talk of a ruling dynasty, restoration of privileges to nobility, gonfalons, cossacks, or national entrepreneurship, the patriots face gloomy indifference: Maskers. Each morning, with sunrise (nobody except these people has thought of the sun for a long time now) they crawl out of apartment cages from fat and stupid wives and snotty toddlers, move in a measured pace into the concrete womb of Production. So that - toiling without inspiration - persistently, rhythmically, uninterruptedly wage a cosmic battle with matter, so inflexible, raw, rough, so poisonous. Gloomy workers know - evil demon of substance has taken hostage delicate and frail Life, the Sun Maiden. It is the form stolen by a harsh usurper of matter. It can be saved only by heroic deed, a stubborn, terrifying, relentless war against the ground ice of reality.

After swallowing Dionysus, following long eons, they have been saturated with his flesh. That is why they regard with such reverence the holy intoxication of the resurrected Bacchus.

But torpidity will not last long. Workers are collecting intellectual resolve and spirit. Noone can guarantee longevity to the raving scum of contemporary Russian politics. Of course, the eyes of the proletarian are riveted on the Earth, his eternal rival, eternal enemy.

The proletarian will Awaken. Rebel. Murder. Neither the police nor fake socialist parties will be able to hold him back.

His mission in history is not finished. Demiurge still breathes. The Soul of the World still weeps. Her tears raise a dismal howl in the black consciousness of the Creator. It is a call. It is a factory whistle. It is the sounding of Angelic Trumpets.

Real Revolution.

Final Revolution.