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.
I don’t do small talk. I do existential ambushes. I don’t make friends—I forge them in desert silence and philosophical fistfights. In a world of curated lives and cuddly lies, I built something real: a lifeboat made of truth, sarcasm, and sharp edges. If you want comfort, scroll on. If you want real, enter here.
We’re ruled not by leaders, but by professional deceivers who feel no shame, no hesitation - just a hunger for proximity to power. From parliaments to boardrooms, today’s elite aren’t evil masterminds. They’re system-loyal whores, polished in the art of lying without blinking. We can’t beat them - but we don’t have to become one of them either.
Most people signal to survive. The Shia called it Taqiyya. Others lived it without a name. Camouflage isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom. This isn’t a sermon. It’s a manual for staying sane in systems built to crush dissent. If you’re quiet, cunning, and still human—you’re not alone. Just hidden. Like the rest of us.
Systems decay. They don’t reform—they rot. Reform is lip service; demolition brings clarity. Mercy isn’t sparing what’s already poisonous—it’s removing it. Institutions built to serve now serve themselves. When the foundations are hollow, saving them is cruelty. Mercy is the wrecking bar, not the facelift. Mercy is demolition with a conscience.
You will die. No glitter. No therapeutic spin. Just the brutal truth: one day your breath will stop, and you will become one of the Ancient Ones—irrelevant, memory’s décor. You won’t leave behind trophies or status, just your absence. What are you made of, and what do you want to be made of before you disappear?
We mourn not what is lost, but what once felt stable. The world we knew - flawed, familiar, navigable - now collapses under a thousand clever lies. This elegy is not for the dead, but for the dependable. For shared meaning. For truth with a pulse. The known is vanishing - and with it, the illusion that we ever understood it.
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.