Just cynical in this existence gets to the revealing of one's own distaste for the information age.
A thousand Astrologers harmonising the same predictions that become a solipsistic vacuum.
The Slave like system of convenience and a madness of the unseen. Just watching the world descend
into old Pagan Postmodern ideologies. The Sexual hierarchy of technology identifying in the
definition factory of flags and dresses and trimmed bits mutated with chemistry to mock the XX YY XY XY definitions.
Everyone decides the reaction and not the future. In a zero consequence world that is non violent. We accept
that violence must happen somewhere away from the chosen cult of Christ or Mohamad or Yahweh. Whatever it is.
So we are changing the World War old Guard.
Those who sided with the Banksters and military companies who were
born to inherit the best of everything. The Meryl Lynch (slave owner) bank that crashed yet the children of the corn
that were there to help the farm grow and morph into modernity are there at the top of the food chain. Unchecked unchallenged.
No matter the information. No matter the Alex Jones's Farm or the David Mc Ike burger store or the sell out Brand Russell and River Jordan Peterson. The Jesuit factory continues to be accepted in the helpless form of the useless eaters.
We scavenge digital entrails of truth that eviscerate the individual that holds a moment of truth or is thrown into the prison
of obfuscation and entropy. Residing in Bantu-stan is the digital equivalent to exile in a time of war. The ones that deceive are the ones at the top. The Deception taught in IVy league schools, banks and corporate parties drenched in booze blood and the oil of servants.
There is no muse allowed in this time of Babel Server tower. Where the black cube is god among the masses. Only the poor that play in the slums with nothing retain something of the innocence of Adam and Eve surrounded by the refuse of plastic and typhoons of disease.
Sitting, waiting, meditating with Occam's Razor above my wrist thinking about simplifying the outcomes and making one consequence the Cathar’s would be proud of.
Yet what is this day to day halo of thought?
Maybe we stand on a globe or a flat earth or a taurus feild or a videogame fed by Nitrogen or Hydrogen all crafted to fit the numeral
literacy of the demiurge who set the Planetarium above us to confirm everything.
Who made this game?
Why is it so convenient?
The useful fools happiness and the life death paradigm forever smashing our life into escape or retract.
The cage is freedom it seems?
No matter the Golden Bars the central panopticon of the atom flying around the electron. Its orbit in the sky above
and below permeates everything in its Vibrational tone.
something we will never accept or control.
Just another day right
on the Plan E.T
earth
waiting for the muse to come and visit
or the monkey in the space suit to explain us all away.
God is a Spaceman
God is a Specimen.
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