Factories will have no workers, just a few people making sure the machines are well-oiled
Doctors will never touch a knife, only input the data into a computer
Disease will be the scourge of the underclass, everyone else will have their genes regularly realigned
Drivers will look up at floating highways, and the tolls will determine who floats and who rolls
Utopias will abound, and protect themselves vigorously against the howling of the dystopians
Farms will spread for miles and miles, abutting empty forests and the 10th ring suburbs of megalopoli
A schism will grow, like Cain and Abel, between those who jack in and those who want out
Eventually, the jackers will allow the runners to keep their forests, kept like a Kingswood, where the border is a humming wall, like a slap in the face
