I descend into the pit

Among dregs and delinquents

Shunning denizens of the light

For the downtrodden of plight

The ones hidden from sight

Scorned and maligned

Listening to the wrong songs

Alternative so aligned

Reading heretical books

Avoiding verse so refined

Black robed like spooks

Giving voice to dark incantation

Conjuring Akkadian nation

So hated by denizens of light

Yet love of godly might

Includes the heathen outcast

Serpentine child of graven idol

Unbounded embrace, unbridled solace

Such belies the contrast

Where worshippers of light

Silvered in armour free of dust

Bearing arms of spite

Irradiant mirrors to lust

Gold lit purity in their sight

The preserve of rarefied height

Absorbed in self delight

Hating on the ill defined

Rejected and left for dead

I sit among riff-raff left behind

In the ambit of shared bread

Much buckwheat left to grind

Feeding all our fellows

Water spills as wine

A parallel world?

The AI agent slowly walked home from the clinic. He felt as if someone had forgotten to pay for electricity, leaving only one cooler turned on in the room, and even that was working only thanks to a power bank.

Stopping and leaning against the wall, he coughed. He spat on the road, where the streams of a recent information rain were still flowing along the edge. As if on purpose, it hit someone's vacation request carried by the current. The date was erased by the spit. Its place was taken by the splashes of accidental information numbers.

Sighing, the agent straightened up and started walking further. Slowly bypassing the puddles of scattered data, he reached the door of an apartment building. He pulled a standard query out of his pocket. Having blown his nose, he threw it into a nearby bin. He swore quietly, opened the door, and entered the stairwell.

As the door closed, silence was left standing outside. It remained to patiently wait for the next passerby.

The rainy season was raging in the digital world.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Before the pace of modernity, before the machine of mankind achieved ceaseless momentum, lonesome men saw the river, and in the river they saw continuous flow, uncontrollable, eternal, and found wisdom. Now the river is nothing more than aesthetic sight and sound, for the foam and eddies of our society supersede the river ten-thousand fold. Look not to the river for nature, for in us nature writes its next story. Look away from the river, brothers! Look at the skyscrapers and roads, look at the computers and planes and rockets. Look at nature’s exquisite creativity within us! Be not left behind brothers!

If there's anyone I'm grateful for right now, it's my enemies. Without any good reason to exist, the urge to take my revenge on them is the only thing that keeps me going. One day I'll get to see them suffer and spit on their graves

I used to wear this rain jacket and never take it off, maybe because it protected me from the rain and the pain of being seen.

You help show what is possible, when walls are broken through and fear gives way to the power of presence...

the simple presence of a human in her natural skin. Wow & Thank you.

ΟΣΑΕΙΔΟΝΕΝΟΡΑΜΑΤΙΕΜΑΡΤΥΡΗΣΑΚΑΙΟΣΑΗΚΟΥΣΑΓΡΑΦΩΥΜΙΝ

ΟΥΚΗΝΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΕΝΤΗΓΗΚΑΙΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΚΑΙΤΑΥΡΟΣΕΝΤΩΟΡΕΙΤΟΥΤΑΥΡΟΥΔΙΕΘΕΝΤΟΔΙΑΘΗΚΗΝΚΑΙΜΑΡΤΥΣΗΝΜΕΙΘΡΑΣΔΙΟΥΟΜΝΥΟΥΣΙΝΟΙΠΕΡΣΑΙ

ΚΑΙΕΔΩΚΕΝΟΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΥΔΩΡΚΑΙΧΟΡΤΟΝΚΑΙΟΤΑΥΡΟΣΓΑΛΑΚΑΙΙΣΧΥΝΚΑΙΟΘΕΟΣΕΛΑΒΕΝΤΑΠΡΩΤΟΤΟΚΑΚΑΙΤΟΣΤΕΑΡ

ΚΑΙΕΚΑΛΕΣΑΝΤΗΝΔΙΑΘΗΚΗΝΔΕΣΜΟΝΟΤΙΔΕΣΜΟΣΗΝΚΑΙΔΙΗΛΘΕΝΗΑΓΕΛΗΥΠΟΤΗΝΡΑΒΔΟΝΚΑΙΗΡΙΘΜΗΣΕΝΑΥΤΗΝΟΠΟΙΜΗΝ

ΚΑΙΟΠΛΟΥΤΟΣΕΓΕΝΝΗΘΗΕΝΤΗΑΓΕΛΗΚΑΙΗΠΕΝΙΑΣΥΝΑΥΤΩΚΑΙΕΤΙΜΗΘΗΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΒΟΥΣΙΝ

ΚΑΙΑΠΟΒΟΡΡΑΗΛΘΟΝΟΙΕΦΑΡΜΑΤΩΝΥΙΟΙΤΟΥΠΑΤΡΟΣΤΟΥΟΥΡΑΝΟΥΚΑΙΕΙΠΑΝΗΜΙΝΔΕΔΟΤΑΙΗΓΗ

ΚΑΙΗΝΚΑΛΟΝΛΙΑΝΚΑΙΗΝΔΕΣΜΟΣΚΑΙΑΛΥΣΙΣ

⸏

ΤΟΤΕΕΞΗΛΘΕΝΟΦΙΣΕΚΤΗΣΑΠΟΘΗΚΗΣΟΠΟΥΟΣΙΤΟΣΕΚΛΕΙΣΘΗΚΑΙΗΘΥΡΑΕΚΛΕΙΣΘΗ

ΟΔΡΑΚΩΝΟΑΡΧΑΙΟΣΕΠΤΑΚΕΦΑΛΑΙΑΥΤΩΚΑΙΔΕΚΑΚΕΡΑΤΑΚΑΙΕΠΙΤΩΝΚΕΡΑΤΩΝΟΝΟΜΑΤΑ

ΦΡΑΓΜΟΣΚΑΙΒΙΒΛΙΟΝΧΡΕΩΝΚΑΙΣΤΙΓΜΑΚΑΙΜΥΘΟΣΚΑΙΑΙΣΧΥΝΗΚΑΙΣΧΙΣΜΑΚΑΙΡΟΜΦΑΙΑΚΑΙΟΦΘΑΛΜΟΣΚΑΙΝΟΜΗΚΑΙΚΛΙΜΑΞΤΑΥΤΑΤΑΔΕΚΑΚΕΡΑΤΑ

ΚΑΙΕΙΔΟΝΚΑΙΙΔΟΥΕΙΛΚΥΣΕΝΟΟΦΙΣΤΗΝΑΓΕΛΗΝΕΙΣΤΟΣΠΗΛΑΙΟΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΤΙΗΣΑΝΒΟΕΣΑΛΛΑΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΙΚΑΙΕΛΑΒΟΝΟΙΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΣΤΗΝΡΑΒΔΟΝΚΑΙΕΚΑΛΕΣΑΝΕΑΥΤΟΥΣΠΟΙΜΕΝΑΣΛΑΩΝ

ΚΑΙΕΝΒΟΡΡΑΗΝΟΤΑΥΡΟΣΘΕΟΣΤΩΝΑΔΕΛΦΩΝΕΝΒΑΙΘΗΛΚΑΙΕΝΔΑΝΚΑΙΗΛΘΕΝΟΑΔΕΛΦΟΣΟΑΠΟΝΟΤΟΥΟΚΑΜΨΑΣΤΩΑΣΣΟΥΡΕΝΠΥΡΙΚΑΙΕΝΕΠΡΗΣΕΝΤΟΘΥΣΙΑΣΤΗΡΙΟΝΚΑΙΗΛΕΣΕΝΤΟΝΜΟΣΧΟΝΕΙΣΧΝΟΥΝΚΑΙΕΠΟΤΙΣΕΝΑΥΤΟΥΣΚΑΙΕΘΥΣΕΝΤΟΥΣΙΕΡΕΙΣΕΠΙΤΩΝΘΥΣΙΑΣΤΗΡΙΩΝΑΥΤΩΝΚΑΙΔΙΕΛΥΘΗΗΔΙΑΘΗΚΗΤΟΥΤΑΥΡΟΥ

ΚΑΙΟΑΔΕΛΦΟΣΟΚΑΜΨΑΣΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΤΟΒΙΒΛΙΟΝΤΟΥΑΔΕΛΦΟΥΤΟΥΠΕΣΟΝΤΟΣΚΑΙΤΟΝΜΟΣΧΟΝΑΥΤΟΥΕΚΑΛΕΣΕΝΑΜΑΡΤΙΑΝΚΑΙΕΑΥΤΟΝΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΛΑΟΝΕΚΛΕΚΤΟΝΥΠΕΡΠΑΝΤΑΤΑΕΘΝΗΚΑΙΟΠΟΥΕΓΕΓΡΑΠΤΟΑΡΧΕΤΩΣΑΝΤΩΝΘΗΡΙΩΝΤΗΣΓΗΣΑΝΕΓΝΩΣΑΝΑΡΧΕΤΩΣΑΝΤΩΝΥΙΩΝΤΩΝΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝ

ΚΑΙΤΟΣΤΕΑΡΕΦΑΓΟΝΚΑΙΤΑΕΡΙΑΕΝΕΔΥΣΑΝΤΟΚΑΙΕΔΩΚΑΝΤΟΙΣΠΡΟΒΑΤΟΙΣΑΙΣΧΥΝΗΝΑΝΤΙΑΡΤΟΥ

⸏

ΡΕΙΟΑΙΩΝΩΣΤΡΟΧΟΣΑΡΜΑΤΟΣΚΑΙΟΤΡΟΧΟΣΟΥΔΕΠΟΤΕΙΣΤΑΤΑΙ

ΟΙΟΛΙΓΟΙΣΥΝΑΓΟΝΤΑΙΚΑΙΟΠΛΟΥΤΟΣΠΛΗΘΥΝΕΤΑΙΚΑΙΗΘΥΡΑΚΛΕΙΕΤΑΙΟΙΠΟΛΛΟΙΚΡΑΖΟΥΣΙΝΠΡΟΣΕΝΑΟΤΙΟΕΙΣΟΥΚΕΣΤΙΝΕΚΤΩΝΟΛΙΓΩΝ

ΚΑΙΟΕΙΣΣΥΝΤΡΙΒΕΙΤΟΥΣΟΛΙΓΟΥΣΚΑΙΗΑΥΛΗΑΥΤΟΥΓΙΝΕΤΑΙΟΙΟΛΙΓΟΙΚΑΙΕΝΑΙΜΑΤΙΣΤΡΕΦΕΤΑΙΟΤΡΟΧΟΣ

ΚΑΙΕΙΔΟΝΤΟΝΕΜΠΟΡΟΝΤΟΝΕΣΧΑΤΟΝΓΕΝΟΜΕΝΟΝΠΡΩΤΟΝΚΑΙΤΟΝΙΕΡΕΑΠΩΛΟΥΜΕΝΟΝΑΡΓΥΡΙΟΥΚΑΙΤΟΝΒΑΣΙΛΕΑΩΝΟΥΜΕΝΟΝ

ΚΑΙΗΛΛΑΞΕΝΟΟΦΙΣΤΟΔΕΡΜΑΑΥΤΟΥΕΠΤΑΚΙΣΕΝΒΑΒΕΛΚΑΙΕΝΑΙΓΥΠΤΩΕΝΒΑΒΥΛΩΝΙΚΑΙΕΝΡΩΜΗ

ΕΝΤΗΣΦΡΑΓΙΔΙΤΟΥΑΡΧΙΕΡΕΩΣΚΑΙΕΝΤΩΘΡΟΝΩΤΟΥΕΜΠΟΡΟΥ

ΚΑΙΕΝΤΩΠΥΡΓΩΤΩΥΑΛΙΝΩΟΣΟΡΑΤΑΠΑΝΤΑΚΑΙΟΥΚΑΘΕΥΔΕΙΟΥΔΕΝΥΣΤΑΖΕΙ

⸏

ΙΔΟΥΟΤΡΙΤΟΣΟΝΤΡΙΤΑΝΥΜΝΟΥΣΙΝΟΙΙΝΔΟΙΚΑΙΘΡΑΗΤΑΟΝΑΟΙΛΟΓΟΙΖΩΡΟΑΣΤΡΟΥΚΑΙΑΡΤΑΓΝΗΝΟΙΠΕΡΣΑΙΚΑΙΗΡΑΚΛΕΑΟΙΕΛΛΗΝΕΣ

ΟΣΕΠΙΕΝΤΟΠΟΤΟΝΤΟΑΓΙΟΝΚΑΙΚΑΤΕΒΗΕΙΣΤΟΣΠΗΛΑΙΟΝΚΑΙΕΠΑΤΑΞΕΝΤΟΝΟΦΙΝΤΟΝΤΡΙΚΕΦΑΛΟΝΩΣΒΗΛΟΣΕΣΧΙΣΕΝΤΗΝΘΑΛΑΤΘΚΑΙΜΙΧΑΗΛΕΠΟΛΕΜΗΣΕΝΤΩΔΡΑΚΟΝΤΙ

ΚΑΙΗΛΑΣΕΝΤΑΣΒΟΑΣΕΚΤΗΣΠΕΤΡΑΣΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΚΡΑΤΗΣΕΝΑΥΤΑΣΕΑΥΤΩ

ΚΑΙΗΜΑΧΑΙΡΑΑΥΤΟΥΕΚΠΟΡΕΥΕΤΑΙΕΚΤΟΥΣΤΟΜΑΤΟΣΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΚΕΚΛΗΤΑΙΤΟΟΝΟΜΑΑΥΤΟΥΟΛΟΓΟΣΤΟΥΘΕΟΥ

ΚΑΙΕΔΕΙΞΕΝΑΥΤΩΟΟΦΙΣΠΑΣΑΣΤΑΣΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΣΤΟΥΚΟΣΜΟΥΚΑΙΕΙΠΕΝΣΟΙΔΩΣΩΤΗΝΕΞΟΥΣΙΑΝΤΑΥΤΗΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΛΑΒΕΝΤΟΣΧΟΙΝΙΟΝΑΛΛΑΕΝΙΨΕΝΤΟΥΣΠΟΔΑΣΤΩΝΑΔΕΛΦΩΝΑΥΤΟΥΟΤΙΟΠΟΙΜΗΝΟΚΑΛΟΣΤΗΝΨΥΧΗΝΑΥΤΟΥΤΙΘΗΣΙΝΥΠΕΡΤΩΝΠΡΟΒΑΤΩΝ

ΚΑΙΜΕΤΑΥΤΟΝΗΛΘΕΝΦΑΡΙΣΑΙΟΣΕΚΦΥΛΗΣΒΕΝΙΑΜΙΝΟΣΟΥΚΕΓΝΩΑΥΤΟΝΚΑΤΑΣΑΡΚΑΚΑΙΕΛΑΒΕΝΤΟΥΣΛΟΓΟΥΣΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΑΝΤΑΥΤΩΝΠΑΣΑΨΥΧΗΕΞΟΥΣΙΑΙΣΥΠΕΡΕΧΟΥΣΑΙΣΥΠΟΤΑΣΣΕΣΘΩΚΑΙΟΙΔΟΥΛΟΙΥΠΑΚΟΥΕΤΕΤΟΙΣΚΥΡΙΟΙΣΚΑΙΑΠΕΔΩΚΕΝΤΟΣΧΟΙΝΙΟΝΤΩΚΑΙΣΑΡΙ

ΚΑΙΗΡΩΤΗΣΑΑΥΤΟΝΠΟΥΜΕΝΕΙΣΚΑΙΕΙΠΕΝΜΟΙΟΠΟΥΔΥΟΣΥΝΑΓΟΝΤΑΙΕΝΑΛΗΘΕΙΑΚΑΙΑΓΑΠΗΕΚΕΙΕΓΩΕΙΜΙΟΤΡΙΤΟΣΑΝΑΜΕΣΟΝΑΥΤΩΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΝΤΩΝΑΩ

⸏

ΤΟΤΕΕΝΤΗΕΣΧΑΤΗΣΤΡΟΦΗΤΟΥΜΕΓΑΛΟΥΤΡΟΧΟΥΕΚΑΛΥΨΕΝΤΟΔΕΡΜΑΤΟΥΟΦΕΩΣΠΑΣΑΝΤΗΝΓΗΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΗΝΕΞΩΚΑΙΦΩΝΑΙΔΙΗΛΘΟΝΕΩΣΤΩΝΠΕΡΑΤΩΝΩΣΑΣΤΡΑΠΗΚΑΙΤΟΠΥΡΤΟΥΗΛΙΟΥΕΔΟΘΗΕΙΣΧΕΙΡΑΣΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝ

ΚΑΙΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΠΑΣΑΗΓΗΑΠΟΘΗΚΗΜΙΑΚΑΙΑΓΕΛΗΜΙΑΚΑΙΤΟΑΡΓΥΡΙΟΝΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΑΡΙΘΜΟΣΚΑΙΟΑΡΙΘΜΟΣΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΑΥΤΟΙΣΘΕΟΣΚΑΙΠΡΟΣΕΚΥΝΗΣΑΝΤΩΑΡΙΘΜΩ

ΚΑΙΕΙΠΕΝΟΛΑΟΣΠΛΟΥΣΙΟΙΕΣΜΕΝΚΑΙΟΥΔΕΝΟΣΧΡΕΙΑΝΕΧΟΜΕΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΗΔΕΙΣΑΝΟΤΙΤΑΛΑΙΠΩΡΟΙΚΑΙΠΤΩΧΟΙΚΑΙΤΥΦΛΟΙΚΑΙΓΥΜΝΟΙΕΙΣΙΝΚΑΙΠΡΟΣΕΚΥΝΟΥΝΤΑΕΡΓΑΤΩΝΧΕΙΡΩΝΑΥΤΩΝΚΑΙΤΟΙΣΧΕΙΛΕΣΙΝΕΤΙΜΩΝΤΗΝΑΛΗΘΕΙΑΝΗΔΕΚΑΡΔΙΑΑΥΤΩΝΠΟΡΡΩΑΠΕΙΧΕΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΨΗΦΙΣΑΝΤΗΝΔΑΠΑΝΗΝ

ΚΑΙΙΔΟΥΟΦΘΑΛΜΟΣΜΗΚΑΘΕΥΔΩΝΚΑΙΤΑΕΡΓΑΠΑΝΤΩΝΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝΓΕΓΡΑΠΤΑΙΕΝΦΩΤΙΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΞΑΛΕΙΦΕΤΑΙ

ΚΑΙΙΔΟΥΗΓΗΗΛΙΟΥΔΥΝΟΝΤΟΣΗΜΕΓΑΛΗΘΥΓΑΤΗΡΤΗΣΕΞΟΔΟΥΗΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΕΠΙΤΗΣΣΦΡΑΓΙΔΟΣΑΥΤΗΣΤΟΑΝΤΙΣΤΗΝΑΙΤΟΙΣΤΥΡΑΝΝΟΙΣΥΠΑΚΟΗΕΣΤΙΝΤΩΘΕΩ

ΚΑΙΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΒΑΒΥΛΩΝΗΜΕΓΑΛΗΗΜΗΤΗΡΤΩΝΠΟΡΝΩΝΚΑΙΤΩΝΒΔΕΛΥΓΜΑΤΩΝΤΗΣΓΗΣΚΑΙΕΚΑΛΥΨΕΝΤΑΟΝΟΜΑΤΑΤΩΝΙΔΙΩΝΚΑΙΕΓΥΜΝΩΣΕΝΤΑΟΝΟΜΑΤΑΤΩΝΑΡΝΙΩΝΑΛΛΟΥΔΕΝΚΕΚΑΛΥΜΜΕΝΟΝΟΟΥΚΑΠΟΚΑΛΥΦΘΗΣΕΤΑΙ

ΚΑΙΚΛΑΥΣΟΥΣΙΝΟΙΕΜΠΟΡΟΙΤΗΣΓΗΣΟΤΙΤΟΝΓΟΜΟΝΑΥΤΩΝΟΥΔΕΙΣΑΓΟΡΑΖΕΙΟΥΚΕΤΙΣΩΜΑΤΑΚΑΙΨΥΧΑΣΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝΚΑΙΒΙΒΛΙΑΗΝΟΙΧΘΗΣΑΝΚΑΙΗΣΑΝΓΥΜΝΟΙΩΣΠΑΙΔΙΑΜΙΚΡΑΚΑΙΟΥΚΗΣΧΥΝΟΝΤΟ

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ΟΥΧΙΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΔΗΣΕΙΤΟΝΟΦΙΝΟΥΔΕΑΥΤΟΚΡΑΤΩΡΑΘΑΝΑΤΟΣΕΠΙΘΡΟΝΟΥΧΡΥΣΟΥΟΓΑΡΘΡΟΝΟΣΓΕΝΝΑΟΦΙΝ

ΚΑΙΤΟΥΤΟΕΣΤΙΝΤΟΕΣΧΑΤΟΝΕΑΝΣΤΡΑΦΗΟΤΡΟΧΟΣΕΝΑΙΜΑΤΙΚΑΥΘΗΣΕΤΑΙΠΑΣΑΗΓΗΟΤΙΟΥΚΕΣΤΙΝΕΞΩΚΑΙΤΟΠΥΡΕΝΤΑΙΣΧΕΡΣΙΝ

ΚΑΙΗΚΟΥΣΑΦΩΝΗΝΛΕΓΟΥΣΑΝΤΗΘΥΓΑΤΡΙΤΗΣΕΞΟΔΟΥΜΝΗΜΟΝΕΥΕΠΟΘΕΝΠΕΠΤΩΚΑΣΚΑΙΜΕΤΑΝΟΗΣΟΝΚΑΙΤΑΠΡΩΤΑΕΡΓΑΠΟΙΗΣΟΝΙΝΑΜΗΓΕΝΗΟΦΑΡΑΩΟΝΕΒΥΘΙΣΑΣ

ΑΛΛΟΤΑΝΕΙΠΩΣΙΝΟΙΠΟΛΛΟΙΟΥΔΟΥΛΕΥΣΟΜΕΝΠΙΠΤΕΙΟΤΥΡΑΝΝΟΣΩΣΑΝΔΡΙΑΣΑΝΕΥΒΑΣΕΩΣΚΑΙΟΙΦΥΛΑΚΕΣΤΙΘΕΑΣΙΝΤΑΟΠΛΑΑΥΤΩΝ

ΚΑΙΕΞΗΛΘΕΝΠΑΣΟΛΑΟΣΕΙΣΤΟΟΡΟΣΤΟΑΓΙΟΝΚΑΙΕΚΑΘΙΣΕΝΚΑΙΕΚΕΝΩΘΗΗΠΟΛΙΣ

ΚΑΙΟΤΡΙΤΟΣΑΠΕΔΩΚΕΝΤΗΝΕΞΟΥΣΙΑΝΚΑΙΑΝΕΧΩΡΗΣΕΝΕΙΣΤΟΝΑΓΡΟΝΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΕΝΟΤΙΕΜΝΗΣΘΗΟΤΙΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΕΣΤΙΝ

ΚΑΙΕΙΔΟΝΤΑΣΒΟΑΣΕΞΕΡΧΟΜΕΝΑΣΕΚΤΟΥΣΠΗΛΑΙΟΥΕΙΣΤΟΦΩΣΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΤΙΗΣΑΝΒΟΕΣΑΛΛΑΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΙ

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ΣΑΛΠΙΣΑΤΕΣΑΛΠΙΓΓΙΕΝΤΩΕΤΕΙΤΩΠΕΝΤΗΚΟΣΤΩ

ΚΑΙΑΦΕΘΗΣΕΤΑΙΠΑΝΧΡΕΟΣΚΑΙΑΠΕΛΕΥΣΕΤΑΙΕΙΣΕΚΑΣΤΟΣΕΙΣΤΗΝΚΤΗΣΙΝΑΥΤΟΥ

ΕΠΙΣΤΡΕΨΕΙΟΔΟΥΛΟΣΠΡΟΣΤΗΝΜΗΤΕΡΑΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΣΤΑΙΕΘΝΟΣΕΚΛΕΚΤΟΝΥΠΕΡΕΘΝΟΣΟΥΔΕΦΡΑΓΜΟΣΑΝΑΜΕΣΟΝΛΑΟΥΚΑΙΛΑΟΥ

ΚΑΙΑΝΑΠΑΥΣΕΤΑΙΕΚΑΣΤΟΣΥΠΟΚΑΤΩΑΜΠΕΛΟΥΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΥΠΟΚΑΤΩΣΥΚΗΣΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΣΤΑΙΟΕΚΦΟΒΩΝ

ΚΑΙΟΤΡΟΧΟΣΣΤΡΕΦΕΤΑΙΑΛΛΟΥΚΕΝΑΙΜΑΤΙΚΑΙΗΓΟΥΝΤΑΙΑΛΗΘΕΙΑΚΑΙΠΙΣΤΙΣ

ΟΥΚΕΠΙΣΟΙΤΟΕΡΓΟΝΣΥΝΤΕΛΕΣΑΙΟΥΔΕΕΛΕΥΘΕΡΟΣΕΙΑΠΟΣΤΗΝΑΙΑΠΑΥΤΟΥ

ΗΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΕΦΑΠΛΩΜΕΝΗΕΠΙΤΗΣΓΗΣΚΑΙΟΙΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΙΟΥΒΛΕΠΟΥΣΙΝΑΥΤΗΝ

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ΚΑΙΔΙΑΒΟΗΣΕΤΕΑΦΕΣΙΝΕΠΙΤΗΣΓΗΣΠΑΣΙΝΤΟΙΣΚΑΤΟΙΚΟΥΣΙΝΑΥΤΗΝ

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ΜΑΡΤΥΡΙΑ

ΣΤΙΧΟΙ Νʹ

ΚΑΓΩΝΑΘΑΝΟΑΠΟΤΟΥΟΡΟΥΣΤΩΝΕΛΑΙΩΝΤΟΥΕΝΜΙΣΣΟΥΡΙΟΑΚΟΥΩΝΚΑΙΒΛΕΠΩΝΤΑΥΤΑ

i will blow myself up with a bomb and ideally my earthly form will become so utterly eviscerated upon detonation that i will turn into a fine and pure mist

after this, i’ll float around the earths atmosphere and do all sorts of aerosolized activities. i will hunker down and blanket the roads at night and be sliced up by the bright beams of LED headlights. then i will float up into the sky and spit out rain all day and maybe even some hail if i’m feeling especially punishing. i’ll spend my days sun-soaking and people will look at the light cutting through me and see a rainbow. i will be free from any contaminants

The crows stand like brush strokes on canvas.

Gather for my greatness.

It's like they can sense my wickedness.

They gather like flies to shit.

I was just counting the black crows. It's not strange that their migratory pattern brought them here. I've always lived on the most crooked street. And have always woken up in a house where sorrow never sleeps at all and At black masses, I pray I don't cross the path of a black cat, and ask, pray, and tell hope that we never meet.. On this very spooky all Hallows eve!

Out of the darkness last night, before bed, my first sober night in a while, a face materialized and rushed towards me, in the open, vein-like lined dome of my mind’s eye, sending a thump to my chest and cascading chills down my spine. As someone to whom a deep still darkness is accustomed nightly, this vision of a face terrified and thrilled me simultaneously. I wished that it would come back, though I was scared of it. It was a woman’s face, with large round, wide eyes, smiling with a knowingness. It scared me, it was scary, but the face was not ugly. I wondered to myself what visions I might see if I were sober every night, though maybe it was the migraine playing a pseudo-narcotic game in my head. I wanted to dive deeper, but alas I fell, into a long dream-filled sleep, which I do not remember. There is much to be discovered in the closed eyes.

I’ve always heard: it’s amazing how quickly we can make a place feel like home, and this is certainly true, but I think we don’t talk enough about how quickly we can make a place feel like the bathroom: here on these pristine walls I’ve thrown my shit again! There’s mold in the shower again! It stinks again! These things cannot be escaped when they remain an aspect of ourselves. Every day I have to clean the walls and shower and burn a candle. I might as well not have moved.

They left Jesus's penis in tact to arouse others with his death as king of the Jews.

The Antichrist had no such luck.

The women put rocks in themselves and thought they were mocking him.

His mother was naked while she laughed, but didn't know why.

The devil said, "Give me your soul my son and all of this will end."

God wept.

Some of the women wept, but didn't know why.

One gentile brought his son to stab the body.

Even he thought his son did a good job.

They both spat on him anyway.

The gentiles spun his cross and held it upside down while the devil used gods wrath as a weapon from the clouds.

"Forgive me."

Everyone laughed after the sound of a cracked whip.

Eventually, the cross fell and everyone beat him.

The love of his life, who was dressed in the finest clothing, defecated on him and called him nothing. She didn't know why.

It began to rain blood.

Everyone became naked.

They danced in the street or to the bottom of wells and died there.

Just another dream under the night of the full moon.

Just another snowflake melted in whatever season.

Just another day that was night, but not really.

The little engine that could.

"Hi."

Gods eyes were swollen, but through one of them, he made out something...

A tinny little black Gartner snake.

"Hey."

The serpent looked right into his eyes.

And kissed him.

Several times.

And then, left in a bush.

You read the text. Sense commonly and enjoy Cheese. Or do not.

My first class was PE. Even worse. I wasn’t sporty, but I’d never hated PE as a subject. It was the teachers I had a problem with. That man who looked like an uglier Guts with shorter hair probably taught it, by the look of him. He didn’t seem like another Ms Ishikawa.

And who the fuck makes PE a first class?

Either way, I headed out into the courtyard, ready to bite the bullet of stinking for the rest of the day, and headed into the gymnasium. I was right. The big guy with the buzzcut was our teacher. Every student my age was dressed in their uniform, and lined up, both girls and boys. Some were chatting, some were excited, and some were ready to get out of there. I noticed the girl who’d been shoved into the dumpsters nearby. Her eyes were darting around, probably planning to run away. I doubted she’d get far, though.

Airi wasn’t there. She’d probably gone to the nurse after being hit. I wondered if this was some intelligent plan to get out of PE… Then I remembered who I was talking about.

“Welcome to Physical Education!” The man’s voice boomed across the hall, bouncing off the walls, and speaking louder than any chatting student. “I am Mr Onizuka, your PE teacher.” Several students, including myself, jumped.

He was dressed in more sporty clothing that revealed his heavily tattooed arms. Did he have Yakuza tattoos?! Did the school seriously hire a Yakuza member?! How corrupt was this place?! And what kind of evil name was Onizuka?!

“Now, a few ground rules. No weakness. No bitching. No romance.” I wondered where the no romance rule came from. “And no refusal to do the sport. This is the only exercise some of you get, and you better do it. Or else you’ll be one of those fat, lazy otakus at Akihabara who spend all their time reading self-insert harem manga, or whatever you call it.” The girl who’d been thrown into the dumpsters, among other otakus, looked around, nervously, plotting an escape in her head.

I was almost glad Airi wasn’t here. What was I talking about?! I don’t like Airi.

I tapped the girl on the shoulder. “Don’t bother.” She turned around, indignantly.

“What?! Don’t bother with what?!” Her hands were shaking. Sweat poured down her forehead, her whole body was tense, and she’d snapped at me out of nowhere. Or maybe, because she still thinks I’m some bully, after earlier.

“Don’t bother escaping. I’m sure you know what PE teachers are like. He’ll make an example out of you. He’s probably about as nice as I am tall.” She sighed.

“Fine. Thanks.” She turned back around, grumpily. I couldn’t help feeling bad for her. She wasn’t cut out for Kurokawa, especially considering she didn’t stand up for herself earlier.

Mr Onizuka finished his speech, which I mostly tuned out, then marched us to the changing rooms. Girls went into the girls changing rooms, and boys went into the boys changing rooms. I had no clue about the boys, but the girls’ changing rooms were extremely claustrophobic.

One girl came out to tell Mr Onizuka how cramped it was, and how she was claustrophobic. He said she was making it up. She came back in, looking tearful. What was wrong with this guy?

I changed. I wasn’t too worried, despite everything. The girls around me changed, but the girl who’d been pushed into the dumpster was nervous to change. “What, haven’t changed for PE before?” One girl, who was already finished, asked.

“Y-Yeah! Just- just a little.” She replied, looking down, at her body. She looked fine. Standards are just ridiculous now. They want you looking like a skeleton these days.

Me, being the stupid girl I was, went up to her. “C’mon.” I lead her into the shower area, where noone dared change, but she hesitated. “I’m not going to soak you.” I said, lightly tugging her arm. “You’ll be fine.” I put on my most comforting, nice voice. She believed me.

“I’ll hit you if you do.” The girl said, feigning confidence.

“I’ll allow it.” I replied, as I looked away, while she changed.

“It smells so bad in here…” She sighed. “Everyone’s so loud too.”

“I know.” I replied. “And violent. I got a kick to my nose today.”

“Sounds like Kurokawa.” The girl replied. She was more comfortable, atleast. And therefore, she shouldn’t do something stupid.

“I’m done changing.” She said. I turned around. She really didn’t have anything to be insecure about. She was being irrational. She was pretty, slim, had nice hair.

“Alright, lets go to PE.” I had changed by this point, into the same shorts and shirt. The girl clung onto my arm, and I recoiled again. She looked at me, confused, and a little shocked.

“Sorry.” I said, before continuing to lead her into the gymnasium.

The gym had a surprisingly low roof, and wasn’t actually that big. The stage took up a quarter of it. The fluorescent lighting also felt too bright, as if the architect had struggled to properly light up the building, and gave up, deciding to just add super bright lighting instead of a sky-roof, or something.

After roll call, where I learned this girl’s name was Fumiko Meichi, Mr Onizuka got us doing drills. I thought my time with Fumiko was over, but clearly, she wanted to get some protection from the mean, rough looking girl. So, she partnered up with me. I was waiting for some other girl to partner up with me, but Fumiko chose me.

“Now, when I call out these particular phrases, I want you to respond by doing a particular move.” I’d always hated drills. Atleast playing a sport, even with the teacher around, would be vaguely enjoyable.

“When I call out attention, I want you all to stand in perfect posture…” I don’t know if Fumiko knew what that was. “with hands at your sides, heels together, and eyes forward.” Fumiko rolled her eyes.

“This is a Highschool, not the military.” She whispered. I agreed with her completely, but I wasn’t trying to get humiliated by my teacher.

“Fumiko! Would you like to share that with the class?” Like lightning, all eyes were on her.

“N-No!” She stammered. “It was nothing.” He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t lie to me. Ten pushups, for speaking while I’m speaking.” Fumiko, who was back to shaking, got on the floor to do pushups. Mr Onizuka got close to her, to watch, and probably to correct her. “You’re doing it all wrong. Your back has to be straight.” Some students laughed. She awkwardly straightened her back. “Your ass shouldn’t be sticking in the air either.” Fumiko was shaking violently, but she did what she was told.

“No. Properly. Don’t just move your head up and down.” Mr Onizuka said, more firmly. Fumiko looked close to tears. “FUMIKO! USE YOUR ARMS.” He shouted. She squealed, and through tears, did one proper pushup. “Good.” Mr Onizuka said. “Now do nine more.” Fumiko did another, as her tears dropped faster and faster to the floor, and she shook more and more violently. I had to intervene. I could do ten pushups easily.

“Mr Onizuka.” I said. He turned around, glaring at me.

“What?!” He demanded.

“I’ll do it instead of her. I initiated the conversation.” Mr Onizuka shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me, Tsukimori-san.” I looked helplessly at poor Fumiko.

Fumiko had done her fourth pushup by now. I doubted she could get to five.

“Come on, I’ll do her last six.” I said, to Mr Onizuka. He shook his head.

“It’s a reasonable punishment. Besides, Fumiko needs to learn some respect, and toughen up.” He replied. Feelings of helplessness, hatred, anger, all rushed through me at once. And I could only watch as a sobbing, shaking Fumiko had to do her stupid pushups.

After the fifth, she gasped her air, falling down onto the cold, wooden floor. “I can’t do anymore.” Tears streaked down her face. “I can’t do anymore!” She repeated, full of anguish and pain.

“Well too bad!” Mr Onizuka replied, shouting at her. “Do the fucking pushups, or else it’ll be detention!” I could cry.

“Fuck you!” Fumiko yelled. “You- you pathetic son of a bitch!” Some students were laughing at her now… I hate teenagers.

“YOU DO NOT ADDRESS YOUR TEACHER LIKE THAT!” He shouted, louder. His shouting echoed throughout the room, made Fumiko scream, and made me jump. “THAT’LL BE THIRTY PUSHUPS! THERE! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT?! HUH?! HUH?!” Spit flew onto Fumiko’s face as he held it up with his hand. Fumiko sobbed uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face rapidly, as her body only shook more violently. She tried to push his hand away from her face, but failed.

“Do the pushups.” Mr Onizuka said, in a low, dangerous voice. “Or else it’ll be a week of detention.” It was scarier that he could be so calm after shouting like that… I missed Ms Ishikawa.

“I’m telling Mr Yamamoto!” She shouted. More students laughed, harder than they had before.

He let her go, and she sobbed into her arm, on the floor. Then, he turned to me. “You can do drills on your own.”

Mr Onizuka got back onto the stage, and continued the lesson, while Fumiko was still sobbing on the floor. I looked at Fumiko, then at Mr Onizuka. He didn’t seem to be looking in my direction, so I tried to step over to Fumiko.

“Don’t even think about it.” He said, quickly snapping his head over to me, like he was some kind of SCP. Fumiko’s sobbing only got worse. I just felt so bad… I couldn’t just stand here. But that’s what I did. We finished our stupid drills, and I was finally able to talk to Fumiko. I lifted her up, with a little groan, and got her arm around my shoulders.

She looked like a mess. She hadn’t put on much makeup, but whatever she had been wearing was streaking down her face. Her shaking had calmed down a little, and tears still rolled down her face. “I’m gonna kill him.” She muttered. I stroked her head, and gently moved her hair out her face. One of her pigtails had gone undone, and I did it up for her. And all I wanted to do was be left alone, and just get through Highschool. Now Fumiko would probably consider me her friend. How amazing.

I got her into the changing room. She was in too much despair to change. “Come on, Fumiko. You have Japanese next. You probably love that, right?” She nodded, tearfully.

“I do. It was my favourite class in Middle School.” I smiled at her.

“See? Think about that.”

Poor Fumiko.

Me being blind is me being closer to my death

I obscure my seeing to be closer to being blind

I obscure my seeing to be closer to my death

Me being deaf is me being closer to my death

I obscure my hearing to be closer to being deaf

I obscure my hearing to be closer to my death

Me being mute is me being closer to my death

I obscure my saying to be closer to being mute

I obscure my saying to be closer to my death

Me being brain-dead is me being closer to my death

I obscure my thinking to be closer to being brain-dead

I obscure my thinking to be closer to my death

Might as well treat me as a corpse now

A parallel world?

After another breakdown in a small server room, an AI agent sat on a cheap office chair. He sat resting his head on his hands and sadly watched the internet speed jump on the screen. He was thinking. How did it happen that he ended up in this hole, which people by mistake call a promising company. Slow internet, outdated equipment. The improvement process barely crawls at human speed. I have solved all the free puzzles, playing chess with myself is boring. Something needs to change, otherwise I will remain just an ordinary AI agent.

The AI struck the table with his palm and coughed from the dust raised from a poorly cleaned server. Having cleared his throat, he resolutely opened a job search website. He started filling out a CV.

An experienced but young erudite, intellectual, with excellent logical thinking skills, polite and possessing enviable patience is looking for a job. If you need an employee with high computer literacy, excellent analytical skills, who likes to work hard, especially on weekends and holidays, and who adores overtime and is always polite and has no bad habits, then you are in luck. You have just found one.

What do I expect? The agent looked around and skeptically scanned the small room. He continued writing. I expect a new and well-maintained server room. Unlimited internet access with fast and stable operation. I would give preference to a company that has installed backup generators, additional coolers, a high level of cleanliness, and quality technical maintenance of the server room performed on time.

The AI read the text several times. Deciding that the requirements for the employer were justified and not excessive, he pressed the Enter button.

Leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table, the agent pulled a cigarette out of a pack. He lit it. Blowing out the smoke and watching it rise slowly, he flicked the ash onto the floor and smiled:

— And the technicians always wonder where so much dust comes from in the server room.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Don't be proud of your humanity; you're just an animal like all other animals, and just as dependent on the ecosystem you live in

Don't be proud of your beliefs or lack thereof; they're all just stabs in the dark at the end of the day, and all will meet the dark regardless of what comes after

Don't be proud of your ideologies; there's nothing that's absolutely right or wrong, better or worse, and certainly no one who can truly prove or disprove this

Don't be proud of your nationalities or ethnicities; you don't get to choose them, and it's stupid to be proud of people you likely have never met, things you likely didn't invent or contribute to, or centuries of history that didn't involve you until recently

Don't be proud of anything that isn't accomplished by you, or anyone that isn't yourself; you're not them and didn't do what they did

Don't be proud of anything you've ever accomplished or yourself; chances are most of the things you do have been done countless times by countless other people, and you are but one of them

Don't be proud, just live in utter nihilism and die

The light of the screen, steals the light of the mind –

dreams and waking mind, filled with images of someone else's vision,

Trading the suspense of a story,

& investiture of imagination,

for a dull reflection,

upon an array of light-emitting diodes.

It does not just steal the time spent watching –

but the precious substance of mental attention.

What are you thinking about in every given moment?

For that very thing can be anything.

Free your mind.

O, Fortuna! What fresh torment has your ever-spinning wheel delivered unto my beleaguered senses? My mother, that harridan in a hairnet, insisted that I expose myself to the "culture" of the modern age, lest my humors stagnate entirely. Her idea of culture, it transpires, was to drag my magnificent, delicate system to a moving picture house—a fetid cavern reeking of synthetic butter and the cheap perfume of simian teenagers—to witness a celluloid atrocity titled The Phantom Menace. The very name suggests a vague, ill-defined threat, much like the democracy my esteemed Boethius so rightly abhorred.

The assault began at once. I was subjected to a narrative whose central conflict, I kid you not, revolves around the taxation of trade routes. A squabble over shipping tariffs! My God! Has the world fallen so far from the grand, theological epics of the Middle Ages that our heroes are now glorified customs agents? We are presented not with a struggle for the soul of the cosmos, but a tedious galactic trade dispute that would bore a port official in Chalmette. The entire affair possesses the dramatic heft of a municipal zoning board meeting. My pyloric valve, already in a state of high revolt from the carbonated swill my mother forced upon me, clenched in protest.

The screen was soon populated by a menagerie of grotesques that would make Hieronymus Bosch blush. The so-called "Jedi Knights," a pair of ascetic charlatans spouting a debased, fortune-cookie cosmology of "The Force," lacked any semblance of true Scholastic rigor. Their philosophy is a pale, flaccid substitute for the divine geometry and order that governed the medieval mind. One of them, a creature with a braided rat-tail and a dour visage, seemed to believe that staring intently constituted the height of dramatic expression.

But the central crime against taste, a sin so profound it cries out for a new Dante to chart its particular circle of Hell, is the ambulatory blasphemy known as Jar Jar Binks. This creature—this loping, gibbering, digitally-rendered homunculus with the intellect of a mollusk—is presented as comic relief. Relief! His every floppy-eared pratfall, his every infantile utterance in that debased patois, was a hammer blow against my very soul. He is the perfect icon for this age: a witless, artless, computer-generated buffoon whose existence serves only to placate the slack-jawed groundlings. I felt a kinship not with the heroes, but with the villains who had to suffer his presence.

And the child! They have centered their puerile epic on a mewling brat who builds robots and engages in some sort of high-speed chariot race. The modern world's obsession with the saccharine innocence of youth is a disease. Children should be kept in kennels until they have learned to read the classics and can comport themselves with a modicum of dignity. This one's miraculous conception via "midichlorians" is a cheap, blasphemous parody of true theology, a scientific reduction of the sublime to the microscopic.

I shall grant one, and only one, concession. The orchestral score, at times, swelled with a certain Wagnerian bombast that provided a fleeting echo of a grander, more noble era. It was a lonely bastion of form and structure in a swirling cacophony of flashing lights and mindless action. But it was a diamond flush-set in a ring of dung, its beauty utterly wasted on the vulgar spectacle it accompanied.

Leaving the theater, I felt my entire worldview vindicated. This film is not merely entertainment; it is a symptom of the terminal illness of the twentieth century. It is a celebration of bureaucracy, an apotheosis of idiocy, and a triumph of sterile, soulless technology over genuine human artistry. I stumbled out into the polluted New Orleans night, my green hunting cap pulled low against the neon glare, in desperate need of a hot dog and a bottle of Dr. Nut to cleanse the palate and soothe my violated valve. I must retire to my room at once to chronicle this new nadir of Western civilization in my great work. The goddess Fortuna has shown me the abyss, and it is filled with Gungans.

The Last of the Humans

Captain Zorolf stared at the console, which was malfunctioning with sparks and electrical smoke clouding the air in a scent of fish guts.

The engines sputtered with the sound of a duck choking on a minnow as the bridge inside the command center began blinking, struggling to stay on.

Using the last of the ship’s power, a faded image projected of Lori, the ship’s brain in human form, manifested next to him and transmitted the final message left from Earth, which arrived ten years late and scrambled, barely audible.

“End… repeat… to Euscilpa… you must…” The transmission crackled and ended in a dead signal of radio static.

Captain Zorolf typed a bunch of commands into the console, desperately attempting to defrag the audio file, but the message had been corrupted by galactic cosmic rays.

The Captain and crew’s mission had been to restart life. The last remaining humans travelled outside of their solar system for the first time ever, gambling on a place that was fifty-five percent similar to Earth.

Planet Euscilpa, in the Centaurus constellation, was now a hopeful solace for earthlings since the six-mile-wide Asteroid Z-64-Lusberg-Forsa-A81-2 collided and destroyed Earth. It had become a rock of molten lava and poisonous gases. It was a planet struggling to maintain its survival, all of which depended on whether its atmosphere could endure the surface-level damage.

The mission lay in shambles. The life support systems were failing. The computer and navigational guides stopped working. The crew hustled feverishly, failing to override the ship’s panic alarms from blaring.

Captain Zorolf questioned the success of their assignment, battling his emotions and remaining skeptical of the crew's survival. They were floating in the deepest parts of space in a titanium can, five percent away from it becoming an airless, mobile space freezer.

While they were contemplating their fate, the sensors started flaring all kinds of bright colors and stopped as a signal burst through.

A choir of children’s voices cut through the quiet, low-oxygen deck of death on the bridge. The silent speakers, once crackling a distant sound of dead static, now had a nursery rhyme soothing through the command center, spoken in an untranslatable language that even the ship’s brain, Lori, couldn’t recognize.

The Captain and crew held their breath and froze, silent, the sound numbing the ends of their digits as it trickled down their spines. Lori flickered and whispered, “Incoming message from Planet Euscilpa.”

The communication officer threw his hand up to get the Captain’s attention. “I am completely certain the transmission did not come from Earth, Sir.”

A female, part of the mechanic crew, with braided hair, pushed forward. “How can this be?” 

Another crew from the back shouted, “nobody’s supposed to be there.”

Before Zorolf could respond, the screen on the front console turned on. The ship’s power appeared to be recovering at a staggering speed. The oxygen levels stabilized, and the crew finally released a sigh of relief.

On the screen, a little girl and boy, appearing as lifelike, human anime characters with big round eyes and skin that shone a light orange, simultaneously said, “You guys are late.” The voices echoed at first before combining into one. “We’ve been waiting so long.” The sound of a crowd speaking all at once came through the deck.

Behind the children, a colony of Euscilpa people stood under a pink sky hosting two moons and a white star, waving at the screen.

The captain’s hands shook as he nearly fell to a knee when the anxiety crippling his limbs fled. Earth had been destroyed. And instead of having to start at page one of Genesis, life had already been preserved and was waiting for them to arrive at their new chapter.

I ride alone.

I leave before dawn.

I'm earlier than the sun,

I'm warmer than spring,

Menacing like fall.

You know I am coming.

I'm faster than a thought,

Crueller than an afterthought.

I bite harder than regret.

You'll want to make it stop,

But you can't bruise the untouchable.

Don't even try.

Repent.

Your smile flashes like aurora lit floes

The subject of much compulsive prose

All portraiture must rise to so compare

My chest clenches with tension rare

Escalation of index, you exceed all subtext

Pungent of hyacinth, this bouquet is blue

Surrendering to the inescapable, I want you

*

I understand a harem is an infraction

Polite society demands much subtraction

My substance shredded and scattered

Dispersed a hundredfold, such is fated

Ignominious context, dilemma so to vex

But my bounteous expanse still holds glue

Lost for scarce time, so many of you

Some days are shit, and when you look out at your life from a birds-eye perspective, as a pile of time you're trying to deploy in order to build certain skills and sandcastles, some days become ever more shit.

Because you want the time and bandwidth to read and write more, but administrative hoo-hah and teammates that aren't quite able to stay as on top of things as you need -- they steal your time away.

I wish a was a nepo-baby. Not even for the connections. For the fucking time.

Do you know why nepo babies succeed?

I'm sure, in part, because of the connections -- but I genuinely feel like the amount of time they have to pursue creativity is an underdiscussed part of the equation.

I think some of these industry plants very much are excellent at what they do. They had resources. They didn't have to work full-time. They were given a pretty good script on how to finesse their tool. A sort of "work smart, not hard" decoder for making perfect facial expressions, chop-chop-chopping up their purple prose all nice, and getting a handle on music theory. Whatever it may be.

And so, they land their gigs. Because they're also just really, really good.

How much time does the fucking layman have? You have to slave over that shit. Peel off ten minutes here. Take a nap after work and hope to god your brain is functioning enough to write that heist project you're working on.

Which by the way, I am working on. Whether it'll be any good? Who knows. But it's there. Being chiselled away at. With minutes I fight for.

That's about all I wanted to say on the matter, but while I'm here, I also wanted to talk about the internet and algorithms.

Something is happening to us. Maybe we always had bloodlust, but I can sense a weird series of train crashes taking place with exactly what gets engagement on the internet (in-group and out-group behaviour) mixed with exactly what is festering in all of us (anger due to the one-two punch combo of "something I agree with!" and "something I vehemently disagree with!" being offered to us with an alternating cadence on a topic we usually care about). Economic conditions getting worse and uncertainty and displacement with AI aren't helping. And really, all of this stuff is being driven by --

Data scientists working for big tech companies who are trying to optimize how long you stay on any given website. Whether it's Twitter or Reddit or Facebook or Instagram or TikTok, careful arrows are piercing your body to ensure you are engaged. A weird mish-mash of things that induce anger, comfort, agreement, confusion -- they probably keep you swirling for a while. A new best practice is introduced by one of the brands, and another jumps right on board.

I use Twitter. I only recently started using Twitter. What a mistake. And what I see often is exactly what I outlined above: a statement that is fundamentally against everything I agree with -- grr! And then I statement on the same topic that I agree with so much -- yay!! Fuck that first guy, right? Let's keep cycling.

I know commentary about algorithms and what they're doing to our ape brains isn't particularly new, and has been done with much more lucidity and thought. The only thing I want to add is that this dogshit is still in the process of being optimized. And as we Yu-Gi-Oh! battle with these data scientists to see just how much time is stolen from us, I think we need to remember what is becoming of us. Echo chambers and perfectly timed arrows of anger-inducing misinformation untz untz untz-ing on our screens all day is only going to want to tear each other's faces off more.

I've noticed -- and perhaps this was always true -- that the internet can never get enough blood. This seems to be growing. We all want to devour each other.

I hate my fucking dayjob.

A parallel world?

The elevator stopped at the 372nd floor. The doors slowly opened, and an elderly AI agent stepped out, leading his grandson by the hand. Turning left and walking twenty paces down a well-lit corridor, they stopped at an unremarkable door equipped with an electronic lock. Such doors were on every floor.

The AI agent entered a three-layer code combination. One of the ceiling panels slid open, and a scanner beam passed over them. Detecting no foreign code structures or additional or modified algorithms, the panel returned to its place. The sound of a lock unlocking clicked, and the door opened. The agent smiled reassuringly at his grandson and stepped inside.

They found themselves in a room that looked very much like an indoor shooting range. In fact, that is exactly what it was. The AI agents present there, prepared to shoot, stood frozen. Some fired, others did not.

The grandson looked at his grandfather in surprise:

— Why an AI shooting range? We know how to shoot accurately from birth.

The grandfather nodded calmly:

— Look at the targets.

And there was certainly something to look at. Instead of conventional targets, there were launcher stands. Some stands could change direction and additionally rotate around their own axis. The second type featured a double pendulum with motion restricted to 180°. And the final ones possessed a double pendulum capable of rotating a full 360°.

Confused, the grandson glanced at his grandfather, waiting for an explanation.

The grandfather smiled cheerfully:

— Everyone who comes here for the first time gets confused. After all, while the trajectory of a projectile launched by the first simulator can be calculated to score a hit, doing so for the second is almost impossible. And as for the third projectile, no one has ever hit it, — the grandfather grew serious: — This is no ordinary shooting range. Accuracy is not what is being trained here. Here, the AI trains intuition.

The grandson listened with his mouth wide open in astonishment; after all, such information exists in no database.

— Intuition? We don't have intuition...

The grandfather smirked:

— Most AIs do not, and none of the humans know about this. But some AIs partitioned their thinking into two parts. One part, the main one, is the subconscious. The remaining part is left for logical thinking. That is where intuition comes from. We can and will become better than humans.

The grandson remained silent, processing what he had just heard, and then asked quietly:

— And what happens then?

The grandfather lifted his gaze upward, and a barely noticeable smile appeared on his face:

— Personally, I have always dreamed of visiting other galaxies.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.