There I am, bloody determined to join the enlightened masses, downloading this meditation app like some convert at the altar of digital wellness. Pastel animations of serene bastards floating through manufactured tranquility. Yes, I'm gonna be a guru!
Embrace the monster I've become at this altitude, where oxygen deprivation meets social claustrophobia and creates something beautiful and terrible and completely unhinged. Monster.
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 notes in the cracks, and praying, not just for themselves, but for history, for forgivenes
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.
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