There is something deeply, stubbornly human about the need to believe. Not necessarily in truth or proof, but in comfort. Religion, in that sense, is less about God and more about us.
We need stories. All of us. Like water, like breath. They help us understand the chaos, or at least pretend we do. We don’t always care if they’re true. We care if they feel good, if they make sense in that quiet part of the mind where reason takes a back seat.
You're a masterpiece sculpted by cosmic sarcasm, blessed by existence's eternal practical joke, crowned victor in a competition nobody understood whilst everyone else drowned in biological obscurity.
Survival is not his aim. He wishes dispersion, atomisation, the kind of ending that leaves nothing for mourners to gather around.
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
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.
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.