The Ancient River of Ad

The river of Ad is ancient, broad and voluminous. Its tendrils reach every creek bed, every gully, every nook, every bend every rivulet, stream and oxbow, and nowadays of course every strip, every high street, every mall. 
The ancient Egyptians, it is said, manufactured a sweeping detour of the Nile near old Cairo so that boatsmen, usually naked but predominantly elbows and knees, could wield their low-tech craft by the squared feet of the pentacled pentagram adorning the Great Pyramid, there to be visually asphyxiated also, suffice it to say their eyes momentarily affixed on the unsuffixed Sphinx, by the brethren and schwesterthren of the Great Pyramid - Larry, Moe, Curly, Groucho, Harpo (who always carried a chromatic harmonica) and Karl.
The river of Ad is now, with the advent of bits and ones and bound-to-fail start-ups, inside our pockets, on every flat mat surface worth the name. One is deluged by Ad and it's descendants all day every day and 24 hours every night. 48 hours a day it comes at you and, much like the Chinese nation walking single file over a zebra crossing, it never ever ever will stop. Not for a second. 

A new Ad zygote is procreated every hundredth of a second and then is farted up a vacuum tube toward all gatekeeper posts (none of which are manned due to automation) at every intersection of optical fibres either now, in the immediate past or well into the future simultaneously, leaving everyone within brainshot of a flat mat screen covered in a sickly yellow-brown bile known as paid content.
One is left to wonder, to ponder, at the mouth of the digital yonder, why there's not yet any advertising satellites or holographic billboards on the moon.

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