A letter to Benjamin Netanyahu and his team. There's a wall in an ancient city. They called it the wailing wall. It's made of stones. People still press their foreheads to it, rock in silence, leaving notes in the cracks, and praying, not just for themselves, but for history, for forgivenes
It felt like baptism. Like we'd finally burned away everything false, everything careful, everything that kept us from this terrible, perfect truth.
It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. I've accumulated poor choices the way some collect scars or lovers; they've become my signature, my calling card.
You don't need to be a prophet to see the collapse coming. You just need eyes that haven't been gouged out by Instagram filters and a brain that hasn't been lobotomised by TikTok. Look at the culture, really look at it, like staring into an open wound that's gone septic.
There’s a hunger that lives only in absence, in the pause between your steps, in the untouched half of the pillow where I bury my face and inhale whatever’s left of you, your perfume decaying into something sweeter, sadder, more mine the longer you stay away
You are the object of this hunger. You move through the world unaware, untouched by the filth that drags at my soul. But I see you, I feel you beneath my skin, burning, writhing, a sickness I cannot purge
And so we come to money, the quiet god behind the curtain. It does not shout. It does not demand. It simply exists, and everything else bends around it. Money doesn’t knock down the door, it slides a key under it and waits. Patient. Clean. Silent.