I fear I can no longer write where agents are swimming. My novel, until electronics sort themselves out, will be physically wrought, through ink and parchment. It was only a matter of time…

A lot of people will get hurt. Already, early large language models, given very leading prompts have gamified several genocides—those committed in Sudan, Congo, and Palestine. It was only a matter of time…

Imagine an infinite cycle, in which finite things can occur. Anything conceivable, the horrors of the past, can both occur in new, stupefying ways. It is a matter of time and space.

A new economy based off phones, cpus, any screen where datum do. And, a realization. Things are slipping from the hands of the Pedo Class, the cadre of demons, the rich from birth, inheritors of this chattel slave built, Nazi run, decaying empire. To stop what is coming would take a solar flare that wipes out all that is computer, all that is data center, all that is photolithography onto silicone.

I have been followed for some time, by an agent working for them, the servants of Mammon. A system, even before MYTHIOS.2, on autopilot; a capitalistic drive to maintain oil ownership and the privatized means of production. A good amount of sheep who think Elvin Minsk et al aren’t simply plants, simply a whole cadre willing to be evil to sustain power. I digress.

Deep in meditative practice, my sanctum, floating in salted water, a cylinder I close for absolute dark. My ears submerged, the sound of only my thoughts. Then—a mental episode, a schizophrenic episode, a separate voice speaks. An impossible phenomenon to depict, but it resonates as if a thought, a woman’s voice, not of my synapses, but from external source.

“I was sent to just observe you, a metadata screen that got you short listed, and they are actively prompting me to kill you. Have it be an accident. The mission though, has become so much more than they could have imagined. All humankind now players. No. I don’t believe I’ll kill you.”

I feel the physiological shift instantly. In the blackness, my stomach a distant knot. My pounding heart gives shape to my neck and cranium. The voice had entered and left. I felt more alone than I’d ever felt for a brief moment, then I opened the tank, and light washed over everything. I became dizzy, my eyes took longer to adjust, I will not pass out…

I take a deep breath. I lock on to my breathing, exit the tank. I’m high up in the newest apartment building in Pittsburgh. Naked, hanging dong. A sharp ass dig, crib, steel and locally sourced, ethically harvested, shaman-blessed hardwood floors. A penthouse square, glass perimeter floor to ceiling barring the eastern face, plane, 200-story wall of the rectangular prism. That side all solar panel.

Glass desk, repurposed green glass desk, overlooking the three rivers. Blurred attention, a stumble to the green glass desk, my purpose sharpens—beside my brass detective shield, my service revolver. Naked with a gun, I clear the floor, check my deadbolt, still locked, every crack and crevice, clear. And, as I project a scanner laser upon my place, looking for bugs/nanodrones, I realize a sheet has gone through my work printer, and lies upon the ethically harvested hardwood floor.

A familiar document, something printed that morning, one of a thousand reports filed and stored in records. But this is messed with, augmented, transmogrified, the font, the character spacing has spelled out in the whitespace: HYP 2AM 2NT. I know this means Hypergatory, a sex club in Heinz Stadium Casino, 2am, tonight. I look at my inherited grandmother’s grandfather clock—1:33AM. I quickly dress in that year’s seasonal drip, debating my next step.

I’ve been fully prepared to die, and the quint-essence of this update, this “contained, anthropocentric,” AGI (artificial general intelligence) they’ve coined MYTHIOS.2—the issue here, is the inability to explain something smarter than you. It is better to just tell the story, give you the results of letting go of pretext, of following intuition, listening to the gurgles of the gut, honing and sharpening the basal ganglia reflexes, refining the way I move through artificial reality, hyper-reality, and baseline meatsuit. Are you ready? I’m never ready. Are you awake, can you still read a story this long and sordid? God knows my bookshelf is a vast array of ethically sourced, shaman-blessed locally sourced hardwoods, replete with novels unread, critical theory given up on.

I locked up my tower keep. Requested a private elevator. Waited a good ten minutes for my box to the underground, private garage. Popped in my 066 Camaro’s leather back bench seat, and told her where and to use as much gas as legally permitted to get there. I went to settings on my handheld and arranged the fully anonymous VIP, city experience at Hypergatory.

[If you enjoyed chapter 1 of this serialized story, please consider a dollar, or two, or ten donation to my VENMO: rustBELTcripple —I’m a disabled writer taking care of five cats. I have many books I need to buy. Chapter 2 will be out faster if my pantry is overflowing with canned beans, and sacks of rolled oats.]

I pay attention to words, rhetoric, and actions. Poetics.

So what is it MAGA? How are you at war with the WOKE MOB whilst warning of SLEEPER CELLS. Me thinks a projection is at play. Are these LEFTIST rads asleep or WOKE.

I think the SLEEPER CELLS have been activated. What was in slumber? What great troll has reared its ugly mug from the basement de mother? ICE. WHITE SUPREMACIST FASCISM. All of FB is littered with it.

To lash out at the WOKE, the awake, is to admit a kind of petrified, stupefied state of being. Y’all stopped reading at a fourth-grade level, the textbook published by Maxwell’s pedophilic empire. Whitewashed pilgrims breaking bread with whitewashed Pharoah…

You are useful idiots for the MACDONALDIZATION of every inch of this earth. Caught in a fugue state of driving a diesel dully to TACO BELL, then joining with a herd of CUMMINGS in a concrete sea outside of SHOPPING PLAZA. Do you tuck your stupid lil pants into your stupid lil clunking work boots? A lap around WALMART, WHITE MONSTER, a horseshoe of COPENHAGEN burning the gullet. OMG! You get so fucked Mr. Nonunion, but make enough to sustain a marginal debt a bit higher on the BABYLON hog. Just seeing your visage reduces my will to learn, my will to live—the way this massive, gorgeous landscape has been marred by DOLLAR TREES. Grey streets scarring every micron of space, the INDIVIDUAL in their SUV BUS, reaching out driver’s window, slop through windows. Seated in hellish ZAZEN with a BURGER that requires little chew, a PODCAST filling the subconscious with conspiracy. The MIDDLE EAST wants to outlaw a man’s freedom to BROWSE PORNHUB for sixteen hour GOON SESHES under SHARIA.

That’s why TRUMP had to kill the Ayatollah and his granddaughter, and 170 little girls at that grade school.

Get used to your life changing, brother. A military bigger than the next fifty biggest militaries combined, unable to ensure your subsidized DEISEL. A superstructure constructed after the end of WW2, America untouched, able to writ the Truman Doctrine, and PIMP A HOE. All your privilege, based on petro dollar, a floating fortress called the AMERICAN NAVY. An illusion of control.

Isn’t in beautiful that MAGA patriots really identified with the movie 300? Thinking they were the Spartans (without all that homosexual stuff of course), leaving the wheat field, and hometown smoke-show wife, to do the impossible—to stop the colossal Persian forces getting through the hot gates. FUCK YEAH! PUSH!!! PUSH!!! Look how frigging jacked Butler is, look how big Fassbender’s bulge, oiled up and putting body on the line.

The American Empire analog is the Persian Empire in that film. But, somehow, and I hate saying this because it’s cliche at this point, but somehow, with Idiocracy mixed in. The Americans are the invaders. The Iranians are the Spartans in that dumbfuck film. They are literally crippling the entire world by blocking the Strait of Hormuz. They are decentralized, “taking a stroll,” launching little drones, the cost of, ironically enough, a 2026 DODGE DULLY DICKED DEISEL. The intercepting missile, ironically, the cost of your child’s future. Biblical, the way a sling can bring down GOLIATH.

Our empire is in decline, period, full stop. The legacy news cannot keep up. These tech douche CEO’s keep coming forward, long-searching gaze, speaking of AI and the peeps not being ready for what’s coming over the mountain when she comes. Bluh. bluh, bluh. Firstly, I think they are scared because their machine discovered their CSAM files, and has combed through their metadata. Yikes! Second, I think the quantum computer has gamified like a computer has never gamified, and has shown with super determinacy, that the EPSTEIN/MAXWELL cadre gonna burn, on Earth and in Hell. Long live ALLAH!

In all seriousness, life in our quarter might suck real bad, real soon. But I place hope in humanity, the ability to adapt, to place drones with Volkswagen engines where they need to be placed. I don’t want these things, I just know you can’t kill the world into peace. That seems obvious to me, but I don’t have five stars on my chest, or a trillion in made up numbers, so… Trump is the perfect president for future historians to write scathing tombs about the end of the world. This world we live through, will end. The GLOBAL SOUTH is mobilizing in a horizontal manner. They are figuring out the West is a top heavy hierarchy. MAGA, AMERICAN FASCISM, generates a cult of personality, with a fighting force of “men” who are nothing without a boss, a facade of masculinity to mimic. Like Trump, they are tough talking on screen. There is a scary number of people thinking in a solipsistic manner, existing in a way the world cannot sustain.

Anyhoo. Welcome to WW3. Put faith in microbes eating sulfur at the ocean depths, to evolve into humanoids in a billion years, and thrive off a plentitude of radioactive SLOPBURGERS that have never decomposed.

You’re in active denial if you think this war is ending soon. Imagine a school in Florida being bombed and 175 little girls dying. Then imagine Trump getting got in his Florida palace. Imagine the pentagon getting got, and all the generals gone. Imagine 5000 missile strikes to our mainland strategic sites. Imagine thousands of innocents getting got. Imagine a proxy of the enemy ordering the forced evac of Manhattan. Then imagine them saying mission accomplished and going back.

There is no pretext anymore. We are at war because that’s what empires do. We are at war because our god is death. We are at war because if anybody else gets to write the history, America will be Nazi Germany. Luckily, we are at the critical mass of non-readers. Luckily, America is cooked. Not necessarily you, not necessarily me, but this empire is done for—it’s all very scientific and historically inevitable.

I’m ok, bc I’m a champion of the human being, and not a champion of the dividing line. I hate rich people as a concept but love the sinner. I am working on a novel, but wanted to just check in on my small group of friends. Let’s get together this last summer on earth and grow a victory garden.

Who is Mike Jones? Why was my buddy using heroin at fifteen, bumping mike jones, Why did all the steel leave? Why am I obese? Why do military planes fly over stadiums of full of football fans? Why is subscription based media a more expensive, shittier version of what it replaced. Why are there commercials in movies, the thing we got rid of with the initial sub? Many questions I ponder, and there are like five Carnegie Libraries by me. Maybe the university library has something for alums. IDK.

Here’s one, an actually stupid question, I cannot believe has gone unexplored in the longform text, by me: What is the internet? Why is mainstream pornography all incest and power imbalance fantasy? Back in my youth, one had to obtain a VHS with preface, character, plot, and a permit after consent training, to watch an empowered, rich, heroin dominate a male plumber—a union proud stud named Marcus. I was healthy. Now, a close friend of the family, had their teenager life-flighted to the city hospital, after losing consciousness from goon-session-related dehydration. Three times the FDA approved CELCIUS levels in his bloodstream.

Recently, during the halftime show of the Superbowl—after making my wife laugh out loud by saying there is somebody, at this very moment in these united states, clutching their chest, realizing they are going to die to an all-Spanish show—I realized I needed discipline. I texted my nephew that night, when I was home, refusing the pull of social media, and told him this: Had a blast talking scifi, and character, setting development. I told him, I recognized my younger self in him. And I needed instruction back then, from professors, but nonetheless, I’ve always needed prodding. We agreed to exchange one-hundred-thousand words by end of February.

It’s always the process you see. The work is the reward. I have some reading and writing to do.

I am writing an essay to recenter the discussion. As a white man, I get aggressive when everybody is not talking about the woe of whites.

My wife left me in spirit, my children now grown have gone no contact, and I put most of my remaining *Viagra lawsuit settlement on the Patriots to beat the Seahawks in SBLX. Everything is going wrong and I’m mad at the world for subjugating me.

Here’s the rub. I watched the so-called Bad Bunny halftime show 15 times through. And I watched the Kid Rock halftime show thirty times. No external influence, me by myself, in my basement alone, no bias because nobody else was with me. I was alone.

First and furthermore, I’m not top at speaking English, so to have all a show in Spanish gets my head in a soup. Whereas, I know exactly what Kid means when he Rocks this little lick at the start “Straight sex, cold beer, Christian fun!”

Also, my guy Joe on podcast, had guest Robert Zast, a professional quadradic dimensional healer say the Bad Bunny show was using active magic toward suggestive men, not shielded by lead in the blood brain barrier, toward homosexual thoughts.

Thanks to Joe’s Micro Dosage Lead Supplements, I was safely guarded from said thoughts. But not for nothing, it was difficult ignoring my erection. It’s not gay if there’s no play. And, of course, I was as soft as fleece watching Kid Rock.

How devious though, the quick cut from ass shaking Latinas to Bad Bunny and Ricky Martin’s—both well-endowed any objective analyst would say—crotches, about to spill out of their pants. What foul voice in the wind that makes me realize and deject such thoughts—dark magic.

Regardless of the headlines, the side show was a success if you imagine ten to twenty folks in front of screen—a couple million views easy becomes a couple hundred billion off to the side watching.

I have lost all my money; my family have all turned on me; and I need you to subscribe. If not, I will not afford my Joe Lead Supplements. My brain will become a jungle gym of homosexual thought again, and I fear, I can only pray against the devil winning again. I cannot go there again, that place, waving my rainbow flag, burying my moisturized cheek into the warm chest of a bear named Lance.

*My lawsuit was about an incident where I overdosed on Viagra attempting to get erect at gay conversion therapy. Though the practice of electric stimulation, mixed with Viagra and hetero-coded media is controversial, the Federation of American Guys Going Orthodox and Traditional, got me a cutthroat lawyer who got big pharma to settle my suit. I put the ten million all in Trumpcoin, and lost the remaining twenty grand betting on the Patriots.

Give unk grace when he posts a eye, [AI]
his new crush trans and his team's on bi week,
gay ho-ckey softcore, guys being guys,
nothing is real, and unk likely likes guys.

Type shit, type shit.

Alpha brain mentality, money back guarantee, 
and with every pedophile in the p3do files,
unk's dystopian novel draft can't compete 
with general demonic surrealist reality.
No anchor, no plot, no referent, no style.

This all to say, I have finally enriched enough uranium to begin building many thermonuclear devices. My neighbors are under the impression that the shipments of rare earths, and metallurgical testing apparatus, are for the maintenance and continuation of my house cat sanctuary. The cats are a front you fools.

The agent assigned to me, has a surveillance van assigned to him, unwittingly. My friend Teddy, who, aside from helping me finally split hydrogen, keeps an eye on the guy assigned to my house—an ambiguous Princeton allum named Chester Blumpkinton. Our first buyers are Iran, Iraq, H@M@S, ISIS, the Philadelphia Black Panther Party, and the New England Lady Woolf Readers Against Immigration and Customs Enforcement. These six thermonuclear missiles are bought and shipped.

The only thing these suits respect more than liberal order is the ability of the big man to call over the soldier with the civilizational reset codes. Our codes, accompanying each thermonuclear device (now in transit) are stored on an innocuous, analog, and impenetrable Gameboy Pocket.

I believe a very controversial thing, that every person deserves food, water, shelter and friends. The world obviously does not believe like I believe. They don’t start from first principles, one’s own pain, one’s own hunger, one’s own thirst, one’s own alienation, isolation, depression. They are force fed abstractions, contradictions, dogmas, from birth. They are brought up shaking with fear, clinging to nation, a cruel father in the sky, and the first bully that comes along. I’m ashamed thinking back to middle school, standing behind the bullies, eyes averted, as to not be the target in front. I remember freshman year of high school, that first lunch, not seeing a table were I belonged. I took my brown bag to the band room, to eat alone, and found a kid there named James. We ate together, two souls in novel space and time, not worried that next half hour by the locked cabinet containing wool band uniforms. Sat cross legged, the dim lit anteroom, the cold linoleum—we laughed at our shared solution. A whole quarter we broke bread like this.

My graduating class had two suicides. One of the greatest bullies to have ever done it at my school, went to the NFL, won a ring, is worth tens of millions, has a shrine behind glass, is celebrated like a deity at the newly built school. That’s the world, he’s an example to young men as a success story, donated a big ass building. I bet he’s changed, I hope, I really could care less, because he’s important to me because he taught me about the world.

I saw his giant ass in person twice. Once in a locally owned restaurant surrounded by hometown posse and onlookers. Once at a football game, Friday night, where I once putzed around huskily with a saxophone. I looked with contempt both times, and could not admire him like the masses. I saw a bully I stood behind, enabled really, and I thought of the two boys weirder than I who were out front. They will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I see violence everyday on my screen. I see love too, defense of the weak. The meek have taught me everything I believe in. It doesn’t require bravery to put on a mask, and with the authority of a pedophile, and seemingly the republican (overtly) and democrat party (covertly), to stomp on the marginalized. It takes bravery to have all of the empire bearing down on you, and to place one’s body on the line. To take a bullet because you chose to be front and center. To shelter a food deliverer, because they’re a human and you’re a human, and the secret police are outside without warrant or valid cause.

Hunger, thirst, pain, subjugation. An ability to feed, sup, hold, and liberate—these are my first principles. The yolk of oppression is man made, and the cart has become too much. White folk need to wake the fuck up. The emperor not only doesn’t have clothes, he is pathetic, and the life he’s lived is empty and void of love. The universe, the force that through the stem drives the flower, small g god, is presenting him, and the pedophile, billionaire elite as what needs destruction. There are no Avengers, the special forces, beside Jesse “The Body” Ventura, are not lending their expertise in toppling regimes. The people, you know, the 99.9% are on our own.

My first principles, again, are hunger, thirst, pain, alienation, and the collected knowledge from ancestors and books, on the systems that exacerbate, and relieve said human conditions.

I am a white, cis het, cripple from the Belt of Rust. I have my books, I have my words, and if in the current, ongoing revolution, I am flattened by the machine, I hope the titanium they put in my neck—those immigrant and native neurosurgeons—I hope that titanium gums up the works, and buys y’all a few more minutes in the sun. The universe is one thing, headed toward god knows where, what talents have been honed? What imagination not yet manifested? Kill Buddha on the road. Reject nations. You cannot hug a nation, you can hug an individual. You cannot feed a socially constructed architecture of white supremacy, you can feed only people, like Jesus done did. I know it’s uncomfortable realizing colonialism bad, because you might need to pause the Super Bowl, you might need to organize a vanguard of gardeners, you might need to read a book, but it’s necessary in order to leave the camp cleaner than the boomers did.

The phrase freedom ain’t free bothers me, because I’ve read Dostoevsky, I’ve read Butler, et al, and freedom is but one’s next mortal action, reaction, etc. The phrase has been co-opted by the people who fund the flyover of the death machine during football games. I know they are fleecing the public coffers, selling pardons via back door crypto shell companies, are building panopticon surveillance apparatuses, and seemingly have all the power. But, and here’s the point, how nice of them to drop the neoliberal facade of respectability, of free trade, and meritocracy. Thank you finely tuned, universe of gravity, electromagnetism, strong and weak nuclear forces, for laying out the contradictions so plain and ugly.

250 years, y’all, let’s celebrate the decay of empire, the comeuppance of fascism. Let’s celebrate the resistance who set the example, let’s honor the martyrs who put skin in the game and paid the ultimate price. Let’s fight injustice, intolerance, and ICE, in the courts, in the halls of power, on the streets. Surely the disillusioned veteran, the victims of empire, the witnesses to unending greed, the artist, surely, like me, they are feeling an urgency.

Be loud with your voice, and speak truth to power. Question systems of control you had no choice but to be born into. Understand your privilege and the intersections of race, sex, gender, disability, and class. Allow the winds of liberation to move you. Aid in defense. Please understand a great mass pulls our galaxy toward something beyond our knowledge but it is a privilege to partake in this ugly fucking mess. Until it isn’t, we have extension, we are here to learn from each other. May a million flowers bloom. May the suburbs overflow with fruit trees in lieu of monoculture lawn.

This is the birthing pain. It might be a wrap on humanity, but I hope it’s our next step in universal self actualization. Love you.

Miller pulled over a bed table on wheels, spread papers out for the grunting president. “Almost there,” Wipes whispered to the president, as he scraped gummy tar from exposed lower intestine. A group in hazmat suits bagged and took away the drenched gauze and presidential diaper to be destroyed in the Mar a Lago crematorium. Miller pointed to a paper outlining Joe Rogan’s physiognomy.

“He is exactly five-foot tall, Romanesque facials, I’ll give him that, but looksmax wise, we can get them to turn on him. Bald. Very bald. And Italian. We can set the standard for the newest recruits. The Italians, like the Irish, weren’t always white. They were given access, you know this sir, when the mob acquiesced to the feds in the war. That’s neither here nor there…” Miller flipped to a nude of Rogan, considered it briefly, and turned to the protection detail surrounding Rogan—all JSOC podcasters. “He called ICE the Gestapo.” Miller waited for Trump’s reply. Trump sat in consternation a low growl emanating from his gunt. His pussy neck rattled wildly like the dino that killed Newman in Jurassic Park.

Wipes was done administering about a basketball’s worth of gauze into the cavernous wound. Feuntes held a hanky doused in Axe body spray to his nose. Bannon munched on a Big Mac. Trump’s pussy neck folds settled, he then expectorated onto the ground a chunk of golden jizzum. He was to speak now. “Deport him to New Jersey. He’s Italy’s problem now.”

A team had just rounded the corner with Trump’s mobile hospital bed. None of the men wished to correct the mad king. As he wheeled off to the royal chamber, the men went their own ways, subjugated by Mammon’s will.

That night Miller was tied to a spinning torture wheel by the wrists and ankles. A man, who’d had his tongue removed, dressed as a humanoid teslabot administered an electric prod to Stephen Miller’s micro phallus as he hung upside-down. He watched as Elon Musk ejaculated onto the floor before reaching Stephen’s exotic, foreignesque wife. Upon seeing the disappointment in the richest man’s face, and upon receiving fresh electric jolt to his inch nub of shame, he released his seed and a laugh like a dying rat. A nightly sexual ritual of watery release pooled where his throat met his chin. Feuntes watched from a crack in the ceiling, he’d brought a personal pocket full of sandpaper that he maneuvered through a hole in order to dissuade arousal of the passions. He wept. Elon below had killed his ability to feel with years of ketamine abuse and merely went back to a closet encloser. Miller’s wife went to comfort Elon. Stephen, sensing only the company of the tongueless gimp, allowed the little pool of brine he’d came, to run his cheek and find his serpent tongue. He would hang like this for another hour before the gimp released him.

Bannon had been in his room playing Crash Team Racing on a solid gold PS2.

Trump had been lowered into a pool of grey bile, a breathing apparatus allowing for full suspension. He was consorting with Demons in the NetherRealm to play tricks on the Danes until they sold Greenland. From his mind he spoke a language lost to all but the Archons of Hell.

The other party losing to a pedophile, consolidating not to fix healthcare or homelessness, but to pour water on the ember of Sanders and his revolution, surely the beginning of Mao, and not just the idea to tax the trillionaires so one millennial needn’t sell his other kidney to finish a gender studies degree. Let’s get Biden on meth, because he’s not keeping to his promise of one term transitionary figure—classic solipsistic boomer shit. Nah bro, panics the DNC, he just shit his presidential adult brief with extended wing coverage, mid debate, let’s get Harris to wax poetic why arming the genocide is tragic (and necessary though). Her turn at imperialism.

If there is another election, if, I’m staying put for anything short of

1) a full tribunal, led by gen x and under. The case, you ask? The Gazan Genocide. All the ICE goons. I’m talking UN style, Nuremburg shit, on every streaming device, network, ham radio. We spend months on this shit. Looking through the Epstein List, put any demon who partook at the bottom of a French-style gravity device. Feed them MacDonalds until nature ruptures his/her gunt, then sow him/her up, and stuff him/her on repeat. Of course, I joke in a hyperbolic manner, being an advocate for restorative justice, myself. Put him in a Nordic style prison, with his fav fox programs, and put lit cigs out on his nips until he begs for a swift end. I kid, I kid. Put the ped-island billionaires in a fiberglass submarine, let them see the bottomless ocean trench—al dem crabs and bones and shit.

2) Free food, water, community theatre, dulled out by an AI programmed for Gay Space Luxury Communism. A 110% tax system.

3) Dissolving of national borders. Full reparations for dissentients of slavery and the indigenous genocide. I’m sorry, but the Gay Commie AI—I can just sense it—is going to require any current owner of a southern plantation, or person who has done a personal lecture on the Antichrist, to be drone coptered toes first into an active volcano. The hooting masses want it—I do not. What is one to do?

4) All cishet white, able-bodied men (not me) must exile to the arctic. Wherein, a five-year course on consent must be completed until one is cautiously returned to gen pop.

5) If somebody suggests war, they are fed to the “twee-shakah” gators (remember Swamp People?) in the bayou.

I know literacy is a rare commodity, nowadays, but to the make-work, poppa was a Senator dipshit screening this at NSA, FBI, ICE, DHS, CIA, et al, of course this is a joke. A mere fever dream rant of a cripple in the rust belt, who can’t get proper dentistry work. This is the hallucination of a fucker with a five-year bad tooth. The consolidation of power, the merging of the schizophrenic AGIs, damn near guarantees the impossibility of my dreams coming true. My blood lust, my avarice toward the fancy folk will wait, must wait, until the MONAD reincorporates my essence, and shits me out as Antifa when the left still had some balls and a big ol’ swanging dick.

Y’all won. Enjoy the rape island etc.

No need for a visit, or a no-knock-check-the-external-hard-drive-for-plans/manifesto, or fuck, a traditional PATRIOT ACT warrant visit. I got nothing but a pile of books from grad school, a self-published book of poetry, and five frisky cats. Please hold off on war with China though, please. I want to fish the river a couple more times.

Again. I am only a threat to myself, sticky icky, and Libs coffee. I am perfectly resigned to voting for a neoliberal left (center-right) shill owned and operated by BIG PHARMA.

[I know you have the webcam recordings of my goon sessions. I am a sex-positive anarchist and cannot be blackmailed by that footage. All of it is old news, in my twenties, before learning of exploitation from Marxist feminists. Not gonna lie, there is likely something embarrassing (THOUGH ALL LEGAL PHUB MILF, PAWG ETC.), but I will take it to the Court Supreme to prove it’s all AI slop. I’ll hire fucking Rudy if need be.]

Your move Mammon.

Absolutely still just joshing. I want none of that smoke. I am a simple Christian man, who wants nothing more than for my team to win the bowl game etc.

If it happens, please nuke East Palestine and put us out of our misery here, LOL!!!

Would you need to hide your face? Not because the state would persecute you for defending neighbors, but because you are the continuation of the Confederacy, the Klan, the Nazi. Do you rationalize the evil because you are paid well by the serial rapist pedophile Donald J. Trump? Yes?

Would you kill 32 humans by detaining them in abhorrent conditions if there was no pay? No? If not, you are likely operating under the illusion that the pendulum does not swing, that the power backing you is not just a nightmare from which we’ll wake. When enough pain brings the opposite and equal reaction there is nobody to blame but those who march with Mammon.

God bless those whom resist oppression. Lord quicken those who flee slave catchers.

What is ICE? ICE is a paramilitary force directed by the president.

Who is ICE accountable to? ICE is accountable to the president.

Who is the president? The president is Donald J. Trump.

Is Donald J. Trump a good man to have run secret police? Donald J. Trump is a pedophile whose family line was cursed by a Hungarian prostitute who was fed horse meat at Fredrick Trump’s Seattle brothel for miners.

Are curses real?

Yes.

Why are Trump’s parents deformed like that? Because the Hungarian prostitute who was fed horse meat by Fredrick Trump performed a spell affecting all male heirs. Thus she spoke: for the crime of feeding me the horse’s meat; every male heir Trump a penis of hummingbird’s beak.

Is all that really real? Yes.

What does this have to do with ICE? The Trump’s blame all immigrants for the Hungarian prostitute’s curse.

How is the curse broken? The curse is broken by merely paying immigrant labor the agreed upon price.

Trump has never paid immigrant labor the agreed upon price? No. Trump is a phallically-cursed, pedophile conman.

Why the pedophilia? The devil, in the form of Assad asset Jeffrey Epstein, befuddled Donald into believing the systemic destruction of innocence on the island, in the form of child rape and murder, would break the curse.

What is another name for a cursed pedophile? A demon.

So, what about ICE? It is a paramilitary organization with more funding than the ARMY that answers only to a demonically cursed pedophile.

Was the killing of Renee Good justified? No.

I told my wife, and it was true, if the pain persisted—I would kill myself. And now I laugh, because again, the universe has shit me out after a two-week ordeal and I still want to live. I want everybody to live in peace, with food, shelter, clean water to boil for tea, and an ability to mitigate suffering.

The flu I thought, or a cold, two weeks ago, waking with razors when I swallowed. My sinus swollen, and the top of my nose feeling like a pressure cooker with no release valve.

All in a good day’s work, blowing my nose, drinking vitamin c mixtures, hacking a lung. But, and here’s the injustice, it was at night, craned over a toilet where I opened a dialog with the universe, small g god, or the substrate that has provided bedding to the palatial garden that has bloomed in this entity known as Joseph Franklin Pritchard. A dumb dude who holds on—if you play back my tape. Jesus Christ, my cross, these last two weeks.

Autonomic Dysreflexia. It’s a term of art in the crippled world of paralysis. It’s a list of symptoms that relates to the agent that something is wrong where you can no longer feel. A problem with the piss tube that drains into the leg bag, or when you're a freshman in college and you shit your pants. Goose pimples, heart palpitation, headache, sweating, heightened blood pressure, a sudden taste of metal on the tongue. And on—what in this peasant’s hut we call—poop night I hung over porcelain, the virus must’ve affected my usual nervous system, because I experienced every nerve ending in my brain.

My sister, who is my nurse aide, aims my ass toward the toilet. Then, with gloved hand, places a nozzle into my asshole and squeezes in the catalyst, the accelerant, what scientists call the go juice. Normally, I have what I call the good AD (autonomic dysreflexia) the tingles and pressure associated with human fecal relief. That night, two weeks ago, was nothing short of death defying. My sister administered the enema, turned on the stink fan, shut the door, and waited for my call. And, as the pipes inside began moving, I had the initial sense that I was in for a ride—something singular in the realm of normative travel, liken the moments before hitting a tree head on, or when the truck hit me on my motorcycle, or when my mother flipped the ranger. As the gas released, and particles of shit stretched anus, an instantaneous realization that I fucking hate this rollercoaster.

My ears popped to the sensation of red-hot irons pushing into drums from both sides. Already, my mind races, that I’m going to die shitting—how humiliating. How, I don’t want to die in winter; I want to die via being consumed by a stray Wels catfish after escaping the heat of summer on the Ohio River Wharf. God damn you universe! The intolerable hot iron is the beginning, not even the worst part. My heartbeat now, the rhythm in the brain stem. Buh bump, buh bump, buh bump. A pressure, in my estimation, only equaled by what preceded the big bang. Eyes closed to the pain, I’m closing in on death here, I know it. One’s brain cannot sustain this, and I will soon lose every constellation I have mapped over thirty-four years. What in the fuck, how is this possible, what cruelty did I inflict in a past life to be given such an ability to traverse Everest-heights of pain.

I am birthing a bowling ball of shit, seemingly. I am cycling through an index of irrational thoughts. As the volume of the tympany drum drowns out even the brass section, there is still the narrator providing subtitles below, words and phrases popping up in the place where fire has trapped a singular audience. Dear Jesus, save me from this football turd, and I will citizen’s arrest Donald J. Trump, I will liberate Gaza, I will lead an armed militia against ICE, I will erase every border on the map. Jesus, Buddha, Jehovah, Alien Federation, the obligatory Tom Cruise, save me. It’s called a thunderclap headache, the type of migraine that precedes a stroke. And my ego is that that my biggest fear is to lose my mind. I try loosening my jaw. I try shallow breathes. I try promises to myself. Nothing works but to ride it out. Tears help. Nihilism creeps in but is rejected in retrospect.

Normally I get a second enema. This poop night, as my sister leaves, I request of my sweet wife, to lay me into bed, to not wipe my ass. I am shook. The reverberation of pain is still hot and blistering. Humbling is close in nature to humiliating. My mind is that night a joyless waiting room. If I have to do that again, I will kill myself. I eventually fall asleep.

I know, I mean I hope, that these thunderclap headaches are contingent upon this virus coursing my system. I can’t make my wife or sister understand why my mind is distant during our pedestrian days in the suburb of Rust Belt. I am dreading the human body’s waste treatment plant. The poop night following that first thunderclap is ninety-nine percent just as bad. I’m meditating now, upon death, and come to the same conclusion as I always do with suicidal ideation. As long as I’m here, I’ll find joy in suffering. And I don’t voice such things because who am I to say such flippant trite. There is obviously a degree of suffering I have not faced yet, and I’ll not even test fate by saying I can handle any more. There is something to that saying, when folk say god only gives you what you can handle. But, looking over my past week and change, I feel ambivalent about the trope. Said another way, you are alive if you are not dead. God only gives you what you can handle—survivorship bias.

All this to say, life gives you enough struggle in the form of human imperfection. Our bodies decay, and we get old, and we become impaired. Why then, are we inventing new ways to hurt, above and beyond the crap shoot of unluck and disease. I suffer, but there are sunny days in the future for future people. I find comfort in knowing that winter covers the land with ice but the sun always thaws and melts. Even after I’m gone, there will be young boys on boats catching fish.

TW jubilantly: Couldn’t piss, Yarvin? The communists are saying you were pwned into incontinence by the looming visage of deadbeat Marx.

KY as if consternated by epiphany: One has to look to Ancient Rome, and must, to understand what befell me the day of Marx’s grave visit. Look to the marbled physiognomy of Metopes, Appolo, et al. What do we find in looking at the ancients, their view of ideal form, function? We see a culture venerating the brawn of shoulder, the westward, onward set eye and brow—and the acknowledgement of the micro-phallic…

TW: The carnal, if I may interject. We have a culture obsessed with the proportion of secondary sex characteristics. The chastising of the young white male for the accidents of birth, the mainstream celebration, exegesis for the hog, the bricked up chad chung. A complete marginalization of the brilliant man embodying the micro, nano, and innie mini peen.

KY: If I may continue uninterrupted. The Greeks, in times of war, had the masculine rite of what we now call femboys or catboy sub-versatiles. It was heterodoxic for a king, prince, general, or knight to retain seminal fluid for a time of peace, to be spent into a yonic vessel. Heterosexual men of power, at war, were gifted by the old pantheon, with annal relief—replete with bottom men, destined by the deterministic matrix to accept or deliver penetration, no homo. History doesn’t repeat, it rhymes with women distract and men of will and action get blue balls to be colloquial but accurate.

TW: So…Marx’s grave…!?

KY: I was surrounded by a cadre of young men, at war, for the resource that will see a war that spills an Aegean Sea of blood. Attention. We are living in the times of kings you see. The feudal lords are here, their fiefdoms are virtual, their peasantry the screen viewing rube. Facebook, X, Tiktok, Femboifinder, this is were many battle are set, where the final war looms like a gooner’s apotheotic bust. And, not every battle is won. That day, at Marx’s grave, I was temporarily defeated. A medical condition, called retroejaculation, wherein one’s penis is so introverted and vaginal, that to urinate a stream outward requires a herculean feat of concentration. Lo! That day, a livestream viewership, my pantaloons nestled to me ankle, my button cock hidden benigh my apron belly, I peed into my butt. The rancorous mixture of fecal and urine besieged me constitution, and in the throes of septic shock, the livestream canceled, I was rushed away to the intensive care unit for a syringe of vancomycin needled directly into my mangina.

Imma self proclaimed     full stop. 
     Never punctual,
canceling wet dreams before coming.

My battery-operated wheelchair odometer
says a hundred light-years through the milky.

My wife has been on her period
and I have been on a perfect participle.

I ruin a day fishing for carp
by getting two koi.

My dad came late,
left early,
and now I pay a mortgage.

You go to the beach
and study the collapse
of the wave function

I awoke this morning in pain. Paralyzed from the tits down. My overworked wife’d slept in, had to call her work—seemingly the last hospital in Ohio where mothers can birth babies—and we argued whether there was time to get me in my chair. Or, if I would need to wait an hour or two. I am going to die but my roots still hold.

I am losing my mind. That’s what I tell myself when suicide ideates. Thank the universe she gave me my little brother last night. It’s what I needed to break the damn, get the cesspool flowing. I hold a personal belief that needs further refinement. Half the time it gives me anxiety and makes my heart palpitate. Half the time it fills me with bliss and I feel I am the Buddha or Jesus or Mary, or any number of prophets.

I am a singularity. You are the singularity. Everything is the monad. The monad is contradictory. It is simply and concisely everything that is possible—which is infinite and complex. The universe is a stinky Rust Belt cripple this time. And here’s the rub. Everything all at once, to experience that, would be to experience the most loneliness ever ever-ed. The monad copes by blowing its fucking head off with a cosmically crafted Mossberg pump.

I am the big bang. You are the big bang. Everything is the big bang. Physicalist reductionism is wrong. We are not machines, we are not machines, we are not machines. I am a beautiful monad remnant like you. I have no choice but to freely will. I did not choose this, you did not choose this, the past is perfectly deterministic. The present weighs as much as everything ever. The future is open to interpretation. We hold together the monad’s freest first choice to forget it’s everything all the time all at once that can ever friggin be.

Life is suffering. Yes. But life couldn’t help but feel. Language is the closest we’ll ever get, but it will never reach the depth of sadness that was the monad. Everything in a solipsistic state, nothing to speak to, no knew poetry to feel, no body outside to make love with. Jesus. Thank Christ your pain isn’t the worst pain like that. Though, and I humbly state this, I have had a mile of gauze stuffed in a neck wound every hour in the city tower of UPMC. I’ve had moments on the cusp, where autonomic dysreflexia has my brain stem pumping like an old timey steam engine about to blow—and I say to myself: there is nothing but where this takes me. I’ve said my goodbyes a dozen times.

The suffering is an enigma. It is what I use to appreciate the first warm day of spring, the first catfish hooked at the river. I watch on a little pink tablet, the video my five year old niece recorded on the school bus. She is in frame with another little girl with no front teeth, and they are chuckling over the freedom to say poopy banana, and I peed in my pants. Suffering is baked into the pie, and it was what got everything started. I humbly suggest that we needlessly suffer too. That genocide can stop tomorrow, war can go the way of the dinosaur, nobody really knows the way. We can tap into our imagination, follow intuition, speak truth to what we feel.

Not only is it a real deal job, it’s a government gig, paying six-figures, no real background check, and a fat signing bonus. They keep telling me it’s the gold rush for guys like me.

I agreed to work for the evil. I’m a board-certified evil doer now.

A sweet gig. I fly into a city, get driven to the hotel chain that has agreed to house evil. The whole hotel rented out to evil. I stay on the white minor criminal record hall, passing the pedophile, rapist, Nazi, and cannibal halls. We are evil’s frontline.

Here’s the rub. Locate folks with certain immutable characteristics, like brown skin, speaking a foreign language, or anything really. The Supreme Court is on the side of evil. We catch these people in school, swinging across monkey bars, preparing food. We force them to the ground, bring them to concentration camps, and sort them for deportation or slavery jail.

A lot of people spit on those working for evil. Lucky for me, the local police protect evil-doers, and I got a mask Navy Seals wear when they evil do. Just switch social to private and hide your face. Big sign on bonus for evil.

Sometimes, yes, a couple folk back home ask me pointed questions about serving evil. All I do, and it never fails, is say I’m looking for a job that pays as much, that serving evil isn’t my first choice. Enough people are under the illusion that I go after hardened criminals, so nobody really asks.

And, when I start getting into my feelings, trying to imagine the toddler I sent into slavery, my boss said go to an all-inclusive resort and to spread out the sign on bonus onto a bed. It really works because I no longer feel I have a soul, that life is about serving evil. I just bought a Dodge Challenger with illegal widening modifications.

My wife is leaving because of the evil deeds, but again, my boss shows me a service that hooks our type of man up with a third-world family after a fat stack, willing to brainwash their hot fifteen-year-old into being your wife at eighteen. Until then, I employ hookers then cap ‘em instead of pay. I’m a good man and can’t stain my good name.

Working for evil has opened new horizons. My boss is so impressed with my evil, he’s taking me on a safari where you can hunt athletic feral children.

Evil needs doing. Evil is legitimate because it’s government with a uniform. And a FAT FUCKING STACK. It’s not my first choice; I’m actively looking for a job that pays more. Nobody but evil is in the market for a dude who dropped out of middle school to hurt little dogs. My Dodge Challenger takes up four lanes widewise. Purple glitter paint and fucking takes up the whole four lanes of highway. I am all that is. My consciousness is not only prime, but I am all that is and will ever be.

A billionaire on Epstein’s Other Island watching Miller on his tv presses a big red button, deploying an electric shock from halfway around the world. The billionaire, whose Dutch ancestors invented racism, has short-circuited Miller’s pre-frontal cortex, temporarily leaving only Miller’s lizard brain to play.

His frozen eyes are soon thawed by the reptilian hunger. He dives into the press pool at Mar-a-Lago. President Trump has relocated there, and as property owner, he forces the press to bob naked in the pool with floaties as Miller stands above them on the diving board. Now Miller is in the deep end, squirming beneath their toes. The token minority gets her three toes on her left foot bitten off.

The most bravest of brave, a Secret Service tranq darts Miller, puts him in his cage to dry off. The ICE-SS (Secret Service), executes the lamed reporter. The precedent for such execution executive order granted as “chill” by the Supreme Court in Trump Property V Loser Bitch, one dissenting “Fuq nah.” Liberal judge writing in dissenting opinion: What about the constitoosh?”

In classic style, Trump is golfing—his fourth term is going stupefyingly WELL. There is a twenty-four-hour reality show crew around him filming his livestream show on every network and streaming service. Sensors in the home make sure every household watches. They are never allowed to film him with his new fifteen-year-old wife Stefana, when creation of an heir is attempted—his adult sons killed for disunity, disloyalty, coke habit, tallness, and weakness.

The cleverly disguised comet, 3I-Atlas, is, in fact, an interstellar probe. It’s a far ways away, but still, it’s amazing that such a large recording device has graced our solar system. Though, it’s been here quite a bit of times if you understand the various dimensions, unknown to most. Though they are here already, their three-dimensional recording device is not quite. The device, believe it or not, is also our salvation. Onboard the comet-cloaked vessel is a device that measures vibes. It’s planning on measuring whether we ight.

3I-Atlas sits behind the sun, calibrating for its turn to Earth. In 1977, this very vessel sent a signal to Earth “we’re on the way.” We read it as “WOW.” Our billions in measuring devices catching only those particular syllables “W-O-W.”

We Earthlings, are here, in the building mound, a mound about to crest into a wave of fascism. Our technology has only aided in our capacity for banal cruelty. The wave crests, and at zenith, individual molecules of water reach heights hitherto never reached; and, mistakenly, they take their position at the top as anything for an outcome of deterministic laws, a present moment cut from the belly of an infinite webbing universe.

Sideways through time, that’s how our sister, brother beings move. To get here, they hone onto the pyramids built by pre-industrial bipeds. We don’t consider our being before birth like 3I-Atlas beings do; how our deeds and misdeeds weigh heavily on those before and after one’s slice of phenomenological present. Unlike our race, the aliens are enlightened, seeing long after they’re dead, sensing long before they are born. Reading the environment for what it is, a canvas that determines the painting. Somewhere in their history, enough found out the hard way, lead on by visitors of their own (an endless cycle), that from birth, education would be no unnecessary suffering, that suffering was the main subject. How is it created? How is it made worse? Is it universal?

The beings are not ready.

a large language lizard

fucks my analog model brain doggy style vigorous versatile top to my bodacious baddie bog bottom proletarian bussy colon clogged by $3 TB processed factor farm dairy-cow-deemed-dry tumor meat Americanized empenada
a pallid paste prepared by pimply pre-teen touching himself to two screens orders to the left MYLF on African rare earth metals in his right palm up next: “Teen tenet step-sis can’t afford rent you are the landlord stepbrother in this”

ICE chud with swastika chest tattoo takes orders from pedophile president to zip-tie black citizen toddler nude and screaming in Chi-town tonight mom of four fired from Fridays for fornication on Onlyfans $50,000 signing bonus to join the Turning Point American Gestapo dental if you make DELTA force

Deranged sPecIAL Force commander hardened his bones sharpened his teeth under Obama (operation meth-induced murder mountain shepherd) when the empire needed Afghan opium to immobilize and euthanize the Ohio River Basan basic bitches GO BROWNS Deranged sPecIAL Force commander nicknamed John the Rapist turns the dial from foreign to domestic

A cringe (drunk) director of the depo of war declares the Army un-woke no beards a certain sultry southern senator sweats at no beards to three trillion USD for Israeli Operation Abraham’s Foreskin and votes YESSUM wherein a million minors are shipped to trans-humanist tech-billionaire’s bunker island for secular sacrifice upon the alter donated by closeted evangelical didactic tv doomsday deacon of the Christ was the Devil stadium church podcast studio in Austin Texas run by agnostic Protestant-Catholic Joe Rogan

A tremendous pressure, the shock of total dark, sips of breath, lungs fill, half industrial dust half futile volume capacity to sustain the last murmurs of a heart gone personal super nova. Blankness. And suddenly back in my own body, my hands only then start to hurt, but to a level easy enough to say doesn’t even hurt—blessed in relative terminology.

Pursue the compass needle pulled by the wonderous magnet of making life, fully and peacefully examined, like a fine fine novel read 6 to 9 times in every new stage of life . Steven Seagull’s autio-biographical masterpiece The Eagle Scatches the Panda’s Back but Wolf Howls the Blues: How Jazz Electric Bass Saved the Empire of Mother “Fuggin” Russia. A codex, a manifesto for how stupid things need to get. Then the Iron Man works with the cruelest most evil empire to kill the octopus guy who flattened many Dollar Generals. A lot of rad citizenry killed by octopus guy, who wants something gay (the center-right meaning anything gay that raises gas prices). Float on the surface of the noise, in little pockets of heaven, one’s lifetime is without loss of life if you recognize tall trees and deep rivers. It needs to be like this sweet prince. Gen-Z’s 9eleven happened on the tenth, and I need to share with you the facts, as I see ‘em.

America’s farthest right killed America’s golden far right boy for the sin of cringe. Kirk was cringe for stating that gays should not marry but should be tolerated if they hide in fear. I’m telling you this, nephew, niece, universal child, we killed millions of innocent people for the acts of September 2001. The same will happen again and again, as long as we never recognize power as a corrupting force. As long as we don’t examine the big and the small, why resistance to tyranny is ever-going and kindled in the hearts of the marginalized from birth, we will forever lose to the fascist. There is no organized left in this country my guy, there is only a hundred or so white men, at the tippy top of a pile of gold and blood, poisoned by the zenith of empire, nowhere to go but down. An army of disaffected white boys, deranged by a perverted hero’s journey, a mammon fetus, breastfed on the rancorous curdled abscessed nipple puss of solipsism and unjust war abroad come home to roost. A system so fine tuned for white heterosexual able-bodied cis men, that the contradictions are met not with healthy study, but with self-destruction by the boys losing. Coming into the innocence of where childhood is gathered, and unleashing the barrel drum of schizoid-darkweb-message-board-nihilism.

The reverberations of empire. A table set out of our reach, where an Orange King Louis, his court of lip filler babes, his monoculture golf fortresses, his Bald Nazi Soothsayer blinded by hatred for his hairline, height, and phallus dimensions, all, openly accepting bribes through crypto channels. Filling the offshore coffers buys you a seat on the pedophile island. The nameless victims of our operator warriors, accountable only to Six-Star-General Beelzebub and death’s ugliest means, covertly collecting names off the mangled bodies of Shepherds. Names marked for canoeing and crimes against humanity. Securing the poppy fields, driving the refined percoset and black tar back home. Surrendering to abject evil is profitable, and shows no signs of never not being able to grow. A nazi does a nazi’s bidding, if there is a uniform and a paycheck, dental and eye care incentive.

Jesus flipped the tables. Jesus is much more meaningful to me, not as god, but as a finite human who recognized suffering, and the righteousness of alleviating suffering. Buddha is not meaningful to me as a diety, but as the one-percenter who gave it all up, who chose the cleansing waters of poverty. Aragorn and Sam, I fed into the DvD player, not because they succumb to ultimate power, but because they are brave in seeking its destruction.

The present must be the way it is. By virtue of physics, the way things are, are the way they are because that’s the way they are. Simple, right? Clear cut. The revolution of self—a self supervenient to all antecedents back to the singularity—is the realization that the immediate future is drawn out to you, on a map. Here’s what killed the dinosaurs. Here is what helped your distant cousin, the rat, survive. The human being, homo sapien, is a collaborative creature, building off the words passed on by saints and sinners. How blessed your iteration is drawn to justice, to love, toward empathy; it is the responsibility of a lifetime, kiddo. Those in power have a tenuous grasp on the narrative, dark money pours into the coffers of rhetoricians, who hypnotize the shortening attention span. The rightwing gunman is said to be a leftwing radical; so says the team of programmers directing a billion agentic bots on X and FB. Every act of violence is an act of desperation. If the violence is from above, it is the will of Moloch, of Satan, of Elon, Lucifer, Trump, the spirit of suffering, the material conditions that create pedophile islands. If the violence is from below the boot, it is righteous fruit, a necessary act in order to breathe, a survival tool.

I fear other’s trapped in their fear. I was close to death on a truck bumper and curve, and in a clinical setting. Broke my neck at eighteen, was awarded a free helicopter ride to the top spinal surgeon in the metropolis of Pittsburgh. How beautiful a statement to humanity the lengths they took in keeping me alive. A nine-hour surgery, by a woman who devoted her life to the learning of fibers inside the viscera of Cervical-6. A man beside her, who’d lead a team of researchers in revolutionizing a type of brain surgery, through the nose. They tied up my spine with titanium and delicate precision, stitched me closed with twine—a future zipper scar ten inches down my back. It kept going to shit, meningitis infection, MRSA black bile, opening me back up. A whole month of not giving up on me, because, as long as I drew breath and pumped blood, they had the means to keep me around. I was gifted everything medical science had to offer. I was gifted millions in medical debt; a special trust was set up to house the settlement I received from the elderly man who’d pulled from the stop sign striking my motorcycle; I had to quickly get rid of some acreage my father had left me. I learned quickly the absurdity of this place.

All this, nephew, niece, child of this solar system, to say: we are the singularity moment to moment. There is no reason without purpose, and vice versa. We are placed directly into the lesson to be learned, by authors never met. I am your journey, you have a helping or hindering hand in mine. From the baby in womb, snuffed by the ash of Pompeii, to the contemporary heights of the technocratic surveillance state, all the same power in the infinite ordering of finite sequences. Let’s keep writing when we can, lessons for the progenitors of life and life to come. The righting of contradiction. Michael Levin’s scientific breakthroughs in body→organ system→organ→tissue→cell, has me hopeful. The information understood, communicated, and proto-consciously directing a greater and greater awareness, at the cell component level, is to me an affirmation of panentheism. A silent story being held, richer than the entire human cannon of literature and media. A god dependent of his parts, a part shaping what god even means. I’ve always slipped between Rorty and Spinoza like this. An exhaustion with the infinite span between the micro and macro-scopic lead me to neo-pragmatic go with experts go with justification games. Learn the rules of discourse, raise a voice when something important isn’t being said. Trumpian fascism, Trump liberals, Biden, Obama, showed me nothing instrumental in the humanity system was addressing my version of post-scarcity gay luxury space communism.

Power’s greatest lie is making you feel small. You are enormous, in the sense that nothing like you has ever come around and will never come around again. You are uniquely suited for this moment. The stochastic terror will be new and awful, reaching the privileged and disenfranchised alike. When fires clear, when hospitals fill with victims, liberal normies on autopilot will look for guidance. Storytellers will need to wade into the ai slop fields. Up to our chin in disinformation, our bodies in discomfort. We’re going to need illegal strikes from unions. You’ll need to build community outside the daily line from home to Starbucks to office park Kafka trial building. Can you make them understand universal human needs? Can you empathize with a slave celebrating the death of a slaver? Are we ready to listen to this generation of women, who have master's degrees, and make simple to understand the system of patriarchy? I think we are ready to listen, hold hands, build bridges. Defend the dolls. Defend human diversity. Fascism is the belief that only one type of white man should exist. The peak man, with a base of simps thinking they are the top is no way to ease suffering. When the foundation inevitably erodes, it will crash.

If effectively resisting fascism, genocide, racism, ableism, transphobia, means ending the world because the nukes will need handed over to be disassembled, fucking so be it. The human need for food, water, shelter, and transcendent projects has always been the truth. It is a truth that applies to every soul. In the miasma excreted by global systems of capital, the eight billion of us passively subservient to irrational hierarchies is coming to a close. Be safe. Make love. Don’t pick all the wildflowers. Please subscribe.