When your nose is pressed to the wheel of the grindstone, you can't see the face of the oppressor. When the message rings clear in your mind's eye: "This is that final moment."
Blanking out. Swaying without nourishment, standing high above while looking down. "A paradise!" to beholden. This is not your paradise. Waters rich, sending off vibrational turquoise waves and geometrical patterns. Ripples nonchalantly lapping on those shores, unforgiving towards all those dead, petrified grains of the many. White sandy beaches and blue dome skies—this is the valley of the ultra-wealthy.
It could be anywhere, at any time, for the playbook stays the course. Not caught in the moment but forever a Pangloss primate with mesmerized eyes. All the cults and psychopathic moral traditions of Stockholm gaslighting, then seduction—the spider finally gets its way. Weaving an intricate web, layer upon layer, until finally the illusion, squeezed from the most vibrant telepathic initiate, reality came: beaming crystal clarity from the source that permeates space.
I am the profane, the underground man, a Wolken absent disdain. A hunted ghost that all can see, as they infinitely stalk, forever short-sighted in all their pursuits. The oldest of heroes, long ago realizing these will worship only to consume their chosen gods. However chosen, I am not merely victim to the hordes of many but the final flicker of that original flame.
These were the very resetters of time as a mere algorithm—consistently dishonest but always true to themselves.
The sirens rang out the primordial temporal song towards actionable titleship, giving this dark reality of absolute probability reason and aim. All those works you've committed, feeding it your young and superior. Your enemy: those most evolved and clairvoyant. Satanic metanoia as self-promotion radiates that stolen essence in effigy—the sacrifice of you.
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