Welcome to the shallow end of the gene pool, where institutions creak, experts preen, and common sense has been labeled extremist. This is the domain of credentialed clowns, procedural necromancers, and moral toddlers in charge of fire exits.
Here I document the slow-motion implosion of governance, education, media, and culture — not with outrage, but with the grim satisfaction of someone who saw it coming and packed snacks. No reform fantasies. No hand-wringing. Just a front-row seat to the theater of the absurd, with the occasional sharp object thrown from the balcony.
In an age of noise, subtraction is salvation. The Gospel of Less isn’t about austerity - it’s about clarity. What you strip away, you gain in focus. Fewer things, fewer lies, fewer dependencies. It’s not minimalism - it’s rebellion. A manifesto for those who choose signal over static, and silence over the sermons of a bloated world.
When the world burns, we’re told to rebuild. But sometimes, the ashes are the lesson. There’s a strange beauty in collapse - in the clarity that ruin brings. What falls away reveals what matters. This isn’t despair - it’s revelation. In the embers of failure, something truer flickers. Not hope. Not healing. Just the unvarnished shape of reality.
Florence lingers like a half-remembered dream - stone and shadow, beauty and burden. It’s not the city that changed, but the eyes that see it. Memory edits, distills, betrays. What was once sacred becomes spectral. In tracing old steps, we find not the past, but the echo of who we were when we first arrived.
Democratic collapse doesn’t take dramatic collapse—it dies in the margins. Parties pretend to represent us, while voters shrug through apathy. Activists pound keyboards. Pollsters pad turnout. But in reality, entire demographics have slipped into statistical oblivion. No protests. No headlines. The real crisis isn’t public collapse—it’s silent erasure.
Capitalism no longer builds—it bureaucratizes. The global corporation is a Gothic cathedral of forms, run by PowerPoint sorcerers and KPI necromancers. Innovative entrepreneurs have been replaced by checkbox bureaucrats who conjure compliance, not creation. Real building is a relic. Today’s performance art keeps the system alive while erasing true makers’ agency.
We ignored the warning signs. Collapse isn’t a spectacle—it’s slow rot, disguised as everyday routine. We’ve turned denial into a national pastime while society ossifies into performance art. Mercy isn’t saving what’s dead—it’s pulling the plug. And when the lights fade, we realize we were the ones inflating the exit signs.
A darkly amused chronicle of collapse in slow motion. While the world obsessed over clickbait and dopamine hits, the scaffolding of normalcy quietly gave way. This is a dispatch for the aware, the exiled, and the half-mad—those still wondering if they’re the crazy ones for noticing that it all seems... over.
I once guarded a Saudi prince who lived in the largest suite of the hotel—and still never left it for months. A man atop the world, imprisoned in his own luxury. That was when I realized: wealth doesn’t liberate, it embalms. Simplicity, not opulence, keeps the fire alive. How Rocky are you?
Paris, 1999: the eve of a grand turning. We expected the Millennium to either crown us with marvels or crush us with apocalypse. The Matrix arrived like a prophecy in leather and green code. But the end didn’t come with a bang; it came with a soft, persistent hum, dissolving certainty pixel by pixel.
Idiots are everywhere—drunk in Vienna, armed in Africa, or suited in Brussels. They topple revolutions, mismanage empires, and burn down civilizations, dragging the rest of us with them. This essay charts a path through the wreckage: lessons from travel, history, and survivalism. Not paranoia, not prepping theater—just clarity, stealth, and the refusal to be an Idiot.
History isn’t written by the winners; it’s photocopied by the idiots who outlast them. Our world rewards smooth talk over substance, empty confidence over competence, and blind ambition over vision. The result: institutions led by people who couldn’t organize a broom closet, yet somehow dictate the fate of millions.
No monster ever needed fangs to dominate. Ours smiles, soothes, and promises us freedom—provided we stay inside its invisible lines. We whisper about escape, then hurry back to the warmth of the cage. The beast doesn’t punish rebellion. It erases the memory of it, until all that remains is silence.