Author: Lars Iyer

You know how it is: they’re downsizing the population to reduce management headaches. Lowering life expectancy is the only way they can get the books to balance. The only way to get out of all the debt is to engineer some … global genocide. They’re implementing a depopulation plan to balance the books.

 

Democide – death by government.

 

There are multiple kill vectors. So many battle fronts. Medical. Water. Food. Geoengineering. The financial. The legal.

 

Each one of us is a target. Each one of us. For, like, survelliance tech. Entrainment tech. Turning-you -into-a-battery tech.

 

Human beings are a natural resource and to be used as a resource. That’s their belief.

 

It’s no longer a human society, it’s a machine resource management system. It’s a fake world.

 

A mass casualty event. That’s what they’re busy with.

 

Separating and isolating and intimidating us all.

 

Planning the destruction of each area of society from within.

 

We’ve never seen this happening at a global level. There’s nowhere to escape.

 

Imagine the coordinated effort it takes to do all this. Imagine the organisation …

 

This is a war, that’s all. On the domestic population. Using everything they learnt in their wars overseas.

 

They want the economy to destroy itself. They want the idiot mases clamouring for new system that the predators have designed.

 

They want us all in the new giant welfare system. They want us to become wards of the corporate state.

 

Total biometric control – that’s what they want.

 

The world as giant rat cage. For the predators to experiment. To harvest more data.

 

It’s psycho-cyber warfare.

 

They’ve mastered the fear tactics. On a mass scale.

 

Everyone being worn down into a state of slavery.

 

You’ve read Foundation. Like, a front religion. An elite of scientists. An AI government, tracking everyone. A total technocratic brain system.

 

This is the most pivotal time in all human history.

 

Do we want to stay human or not? That’s the question.

 

There is no human solution for this. There are just … layers and layers of evil. Only through God are we saved. Remember that.

 

We have to understand what kind of battle this is, what we’re up against.

 

God’s given us a window of time – that’s all.

 

They’re moving all the assets into secret control. That’s the goal.

 

Half the economy’s secret – you know that. The drugs trade. The arms trade. All that stuff.

 

We’re dealing with powerful interdimensional forces.

 

It’s synthetic biology. They’re transitioning us from carbon-based to silicon-based life-forms. That’s the plan.

 

We’re just biologically programmed robots – that’s how they see us. Mind control is just reprogramming a computer.

 

Omniscience: that’s what they want. The all seeing eye. The perpetual surveillance state … Fucking Sauron, man.

Nimrod sits at the top of the tower of Babel and can see fucking everything.

 

They’re building a technological body for the Antichrist – everyone knows that.

 

The Antichrist will be full machine and full human. Both at once.

 

It’s possession – the anti-incarnation.

 

Infestation. Evil in an environment. In animals.

In an institution?

Maybe.

 

We’re the sheep, and the sheep are always led to the slaughter.

 

It’s like weeding the garden for them.

They’re altering our minds. Tenderizing our minds. They’re ruling by group psychology and fear.

 

It’s permanent psychological war. Permanent applied behavioural science war. It’s permanent victim / abuser relationship with government.

 

They want to fuck up our hyppocampuses. Like, the deep brain. Induce memory loss, emotional disruptions, psychological disorders, general brain fog. Dementia, basically.

 

They want to rebuild the neural structures in our brains. They want to enslave us. To experiment on us. To exterminate us.

 

Cognitive decline – that’s what they want to induce. Artificial depression.

 

They’re going to wipe out most of humanity and tame the rest through mind-control.

 

Our whole environment. Our food. Our water. The skies. Everything will be full of this … nano-shit.

 

And this nanotech is nearly indestructible. It’s intelligent. Aggressive.

 

The secret governance system. They want direct control over each of us. Chipping us. Putting AI software and algorithims in charge.

 

Chipped like livestock. Mind controlled.

 

The digital slavery system.

 

Everything coated in nanotech. Everything synched with AI. The whole sky a criss-cross of chem trails, dissolving into haze.

 

This is a frequency war. We’re being irradiated. Constantly.

 

They’ve unleashed their neuroweapons of mass destruction.

 

There are only controllers and controlled – that’s all.

 

We’re being used as hosts for a new AI system. We’re the infrastructure. They’re using our biology.

 

They’re hijacking our nervous systems. Our brains.

They’re trying to get stuff into our bodies that won’t be rejected as artificial.

 

Keep us all stupid, poisoned, intoxicated, distracted, debased.

 

They’re degrading us. Debasing education. It’s deliberate. It’s the long term plan. They want to drive us to suicide.

 

They’re, like, collapsing our morals.

 

They’re using psychotronic weaponry.

 

People who need to die: that’s how they view us. On the slow kill model.

 

It’s all about nanobioelectronics. The direct cortical interface. Neural fucking lace.

There’ll be nanowires in your eyelids, in your throat, in your veins. They’ll know what you see. What you taste. They’ll microharvest your biodynamic data …

 

The psychopathic control grid.

 

The behavioural psychologists are at work. The mindspacers. The nudge units. It’s government by propaganda. It’s neuro-lingusitic programming. Black magic, in other words.

 

Just installing the bio-fascist security grid.

 

They’ve developed these intelligent parasites. That can, like, move about. That are adaptable. Multi-responsive. That are part biological, part … AI. They can process things. Perceive things. They get their instructions via the network. 5G.

 

It’s a new AI species … These parasitical machines …

 

We’re going to be full of these self-spreading, self-replicating parasites.

 

They’re hijacking our cells. Reprogramming them.

 

They’re editing our genes remotely – in real time.

 

There’s … energetic hacking going on. Our electromagnetic bodies are to be harvested and controlled.

 

There are fast kill programmes and slow kill ones.

 

They’re cooking us with microwaves.

They’re dropping nanobots from the sky. They’re crop-dusting smartdust.

 

They’re taking totalitarian control to the cellular level. To the genetic level. 

 

Misprogrammed machines that either have to be reprogrammed or destroyed. That’s what we are for them.

 

They want us to lose our free will, our individuality. Our fucking souls …

 

The enemy is not human. Realise that.

 

This is a war on creation. This is a metaphysical war.

 

They’re not creating anything. They’re hijacking – they’re hijacking life. It’s got Satan’s MO written all over it.

 

Demons are dead. They can’t create.

 

Satan isn’t a creator. He can only twist and deform what God’s created.

 

The Luciferian Age. The world as a Satanic temple.

 

A Satanic aristocracy. With a slave population.

 

A world Satanic government. A world Satanic religion. That’s what they want.

 

The whole of our lives, run by Satanic elites. By the new Satanic order.

 

Full spectrum dominance for the fucking Satanists.

 

They’re going after everything’s that’s holy and sacred. They want to wipe out the image of God in man.

 

They want to make humankind into some other thing. A giant Borg hivemind. Without individual personhood. Just a node of the giant web. Part of the fucking matrix.

 

A gene modification system – that’s what this is about. It’s frequency based. They want to deliver gene-editing tech into the human body.

 

All of us, integrated into the global brain system. The global hivemind. And if you’re not … you’ll be a rogue, a threat. A walking biowarfare agent.

The total ownership of humans. The digitalisation of everything that can be traded or used as a medium of exchange.

 

A mind-controlled population under a Satanic technocratic superstate. That’s the plan.

 

The world as farm. As zoo. As fucking lab.

 

They want the ultimate form of control. That of the human species at the most basic level.

 

Complete global enslavement: that’s the aim.

 

We’re a resource to be optimised within the system, that’s all. It’s livestock management.

 

We’re the stock, that’s all. And some stock will be upgraded, some just dispensed with, according to what they need.

 

A population control grid. That’s what they’re aiming at.

 

They’ve got a whole world government system waiting in the wings. It’s oven fucking ready.

 

The world turned into a for-profit prison.

 

An all-planetary system of control. Managed by AI.

 

Total digital colonialism.

Fucking in the afternoon. As a way to ward away the afternoon. As a way to use the afternoon. For ourselves. Not to, like, fear the dissipation. To fuck and then … lie here … sleep, maybe.

 

Openness. Drifting. And looking upwards, through your skylight at … the air. The light. The sky. The clouds … All these fucking things.

 

It’s a secret romance. A secret just between the two of us. That no one will know but us.

This. Us. The affirmation of us. That’s our secret. That only we could know. Only we could know how we are with one another.

This stuff. How we talk together. How we are together. Our … gestures, or whatever. The way we fuck, even. All this stuff …

 

The world isn’t as it was. It’s changed. The world’s cracked open.

Something’s revealed. A vista. An expanse. Another way of living. Of speaking. Of seeing.

 

It just chugs along. Does its own thing. It likes us to be together. It brings us together. It makes us … kiss. And fuck. And hang out.

It: who’s that? What’s that? Lust? Love? The coast?

Maybe it’s God. The God of romance. Cupid. Eros. I don’t know.

 

We want to be left alone, right. Left alone by the world. Unnoticed by the world.

We want to suspend the world. Deactivate the world – the logic of the world.

 

Suspending the law of the world: is that it?

What law? What world? What anything?

 

It’s about a world we’ve created together. A you-and-I world. Our own world. With our own rules. Our own way of being together. Our own way of being together. Of talking about stuff.

 

Just a little bit of excitement, that’s what I wanted. A bit of fun. Because there’s no fun in the world anymore.

I don’t believe you.

What do you think I was looking for?

 

Look, maybe I was just greedy. Maybe I was just bored, and ready and indolent and willing to throw everything away for some excitement. Pathetic, isn’t it?

 

All these books. These old books. They’re from a different time and about a different time, only you haven’t understood that yet. They’re outdated, just as you’re outdated. Do you think you can live like that – like those old-time thinkers, in old-time jobs, in old-style unis?

 

You’re playing at being a philosopher and I’m playing at having an affair with a philosopher.

 

You’re following your blind alley, as I’m no doubt following mine.

What’s your blind alley?

I don’t know. Romance, maybe. This romance.

 

We’re having an affair just like everyone who’s ever had affairs. It’s been done. We’re completely average.

 

Let’s keep God between us. Let’s keep the between between us. Keep the light between us. Keep the air between us. Keep the coast between us.

 

Are all philosophers like you?

Are all organisational management-ers like you?

 

See, we meet in the middle. Where our disciplines intersect.

Laughter.

 

Wouldn’t you rather be with a philosopher? A thinker? Or is there only room for one thinker in our relationship?

 

You wanted an adventure.

Sure, an adventure. Because life without adventures is … boring.

You wanted to make things happen. To prove that you could. To relish your powers of attraction.

 

You’re a luxuriator. A cat, purring. This is an idyll in life for you. It’s a grove. It’s a vista. But it’ll pass. It’s a treat. It’s an indulgence. But your real life is elsewhere.

 

It’s like you’re playing with me. You can play at romance with me. Your real relationship is elsewhere. So all this is a … toying. A playing. Some idle distraction.

Oh, it’s a bit more than that.

Come on, it’s just Something to Do. It’s a Diversion. It’s a little escape.

 

You’re on the trail of my Seriousness. For you, I have to be Serious. That’s what it’s All About. Everyone has to have a Secret Seriousness … But maybe I don’t. Are you disappointed?

 

You want to be some European throwback. A throwback to some culture you weren’t even part of. What’s it got to do with you, anyway?

What’s anything got to do with anyone, these days?

 

All your youth and young manhood tethered to this. About this. Philosophy … Something you’d like to be good at, but are never really sure you’re good at.

What are you going to have to show for your life? The ruins of your magnum opus. And some bad imitation French prose poem philosophy. It’s not much, is it?

You’ll get bored of it, age forty or so. Get married. Reproduce. That’ll distract you for a few years. And all your European philosophy books will just stand there unread. If your living room. Then you’ll move them into your office. And there they’ll sit, completely inert, completely unread …

 

I’ve seen your future, philosopher. How long can the magnum opus dream sustain you, do you think? Until, like, middle age. Until you get fat, or whatever. Until your testosterone dies down. Until you lose your drive. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, since it’s own driven you to … idiocies …

And what about you – what’ll happen in your middle age? When you lose your power to seduce. When no one wants to fuck you. You’d better have a family by then. Something to … keep you occupied.

 

Philosophers have been wrong about everything, haven’t they? What haven’t philosophers been wrong about?

 

Maybe I should leave him. Move in here. Don’t make that face. Do you think we’d get on? Do you think we could make a life together – me, you and your magnum opus?

Actually, I don’t know if I could live here. It’s a bit cramped. I couldn’t fit in my stuff. I’ve got a lot of stuff …

 

What’s your philosophy about, anyway? Explain it in a layperson’s terms. In a organisational management-ers terms.

 

Philosophy is bullshit anyway. But so is organisational management. So are all the subjects. Well, that’s how it seems to me today.

 

You seem very complicated, philosopher. I suppose I should want to work you out. I’m not sure I do, though. Maybe I need to become a little complicated so I can appreciate your complications.

 

You need to be distracted, philosopher. From your magnum opus, or whatever. Or your dreams of a magnum opus. Which you’ll never write.

 

So you write every day? Every – single – day? So you have that much to write?

I write anyway.

You must believe in yourself, in some fundamental way. To believe you have something worth saying. Someone in your life must have thought an awful lot of you. Your mother? I think it’s all about your mother.

 

You put a lot into this. Too much, maybe. Isn’t it a bit laboured? I mean, what are you trying to do? Who are you trying to be?

You should write something that’s closer to the way you speak. You don’t speak like this, do you? Just capture some of our tos and fros, for example. Everyday talk.

Do you take advice, philosopher? Do you like it? Do you welcome feedback? Are you receptive to the thoughts of lesser philosophical mortals?

 

Sharing our nothings. Our insignificances. None of this adds up anything. Frittering our lives away.

 

All this life to waste, to burn up. To offer up … to who? To what? Why – the great why.

 

Here we are, walking on the beach. Doing romance. Are we good at doing romance, do you think? At being a loved up couple? Does this suit us? Do we cheer up the people we walk by? Do we confirm their belief in love and romance?

 

This bedroom … where it happens. Where it doesn’t happen. Where everything is lost. And found again. And lost again.

 

God, hasn’t there always been enough of us? Too much of us? Aren’t we tired of who we are? Of all we have been? Isn’t this peak ‘us’?

 

Maybe I’m bored of our so-called love. Maybe I’m bored of being a lover.

 

Fuck what are you turning me into? You and your philosophy! You’ve infected me with philosophy. You’ve made it okay to talk like this – as no one should be allowed talk. No one should be allowed to say these fucking things …

 

Is this what it’s like to be a philosopher? Never involved. Never real. Never physical.

 

You’re not even handsome.

You’re not even beautiful.

That’s not what you said the first night.

 

You should write me a love letter. Not high falutin’ literary-philosophical stuff. Something a humble organisational manager like me could understand.

 

All our chatter. All this chatting. Do you object to it? Do you think I talk too much? Maybe I should be mysterious and silent.

 

Lovers tease one another – you do know that, don’t you?

 

What a way to pass the afternoon!

 

Are you going to become a man of letters? Like in the old days? Do you want your name to be known?

 

I miss you even when I’m with you. You’re not really here, are you? You’re not … listening.

 

I don’t even loathe myself very interestingly, not like you philosophers. You’re very good at that. You’re virtuosos.

 

All this time and space and peace. I wouldn’t know what to do. It’ so still, philosopher. It’s so suspended. Nothing’s happening. But that’s, like, a positive state. Is this conducive to work? Have you got a lot done? I think I’d like to watch you work. But it’d be too boring.

 

What books have you read today? What are you reading? Something very, very hard.

 

God, what did I fall into? What am I doing with my life? Aren’t I doing the most stupid thing possible with my life?

 

If you met me at a dinner party, would you like me? Do you go to dinner parties?

 

Sometimes I have utter, complete contempt for … everyone alive. Including me. Most of all me.

 

Our farce. Our comedy. Is it a comedy? Is this a comedy? Who’s laughing? Where’s the laugh track?

 

I want to descend. Let’s go out. Let’s walk the streets. Let’s go to the beach. I don’t care who sees us. I don’t care anymore. About anything.

 

Who else talks like this? About life and death and everything? Is this how you talk in philosophy? Imagine, I could be a philosopher, too.

 

Nothing happens here except the clouds change. The clouds move. There are different kinds of clouds.

 

Not a cloud in the sky. The lids off. The day’s open.

 

I swear time’s slowing down. It’s supposed to go quickly when you’ve having fun. 

 

Just falling through the afternoon. Falling to where, I don’t know.

 

Meanwhile, there’s your skylight. Meanwhile, there’s your non-view. Meanwhile … We’re wearing the day away. The day’s wearing us away.

 

I swear you can see through the world. I swear it’s getting thin in places.

 

What are we going to talk about now? What haven’t we talked about yet?

 

Fucking in the void. Can you fuck the void away, do you think? Can you fuck your way out of obscurity?

 

The day’s going on without us. The day’s doing its day thing. And we’re doing our you and I thing. Whatever that is. What is it, anyway? Who are we, anyway?

So you’re the philosophers of the coast.

We’re the anti-philosophers of the coast.

Anti-philosophers. Cool.

 

I think we’re here to attend to something. To watch for something. To be alert. On the watch.

What for, a miracle?

An anti-miracle, maybe. An anti-miracle of the Antichrist. That only an anti-philosophy could detect.

 

We have to be ready for, like, the ultimate theophany. That’s, like, unparalleled in its depths.

Only it could be an … anti-theophany.

 

The apocalyptic fire of divine love. A great fire, that will burn up the world. And will be called justice.

Either God or the world, right?

 

To destroy everything and just allow a sacred void to remain, from which everything could begin anew.

 

Anti-philosophers: that’s who we have to be now. The time of philosophy is over.

Was there actually a time of philosophy? Did I miss something?

 

So you’re the philosophers of the coast.

We’re the anti-philosophers of the coast.

This is the philosophy of our times! We’re the philosophers our time deserves!

 

Only at the edges of Europe can European thought re-emerge. Only at its lunatic fringes. Only through our stupidity. By our stupidity. Wielding our stupidity.

We’ve only ever needed the courage of our stupidity. We’ve only even needed to be unleashed into our stupidity. To soar into it.

 

The cryptophilosophy beneath our philosophy. The cryptotheology under our cryptophilosophy. Nearly hidden by it.

Our hidden significance, which is completely different from our actual significance. You have to know how to read us. How to interpret us. It’s all there.

 

The theology working inside of us. The theology that uses us as its vessels.

 

The last theology. That doesn’t even present itself as theology. That doesn’t look like theology. But that is nevertheless theology. That is nothing but theology.

How much longer do we have to live? What’s the right age to gracefully bow out? When will we have done our time? Hasn’t been too long, already? Haven’t we taken it too far? Haven’t we missed the perfect age to finish ourselves off? Perhaps that’s our guilt: that we missed the obvious point. That we didn’t take the turn. Didn’t act. Didn’t do it then, when we should have done. We missed out … And survived …

We missed the moment. When was it? When was it time to … When should we have done it? Oh but it’s too late now. It’d be grotesque now. Even more grotesque than just living on, or whatever we’re doing.

We’re living on. We’re allowing ourselves to live on. That old life instinct. So misplaced. So … redundant …

Our just-going-on. Our tastelessness. It really shouldn’t be allowed. And nor should we allowed.

What’s our excuse? For not just … taking our lives. Right here! Right now! Just throwing ourselves in the North Sea. There it is: the whole North Sea. We could just walk out on Tynemouth Peer or Southern Pier and throw ourselves off. No, not even throw ourselves off – too histrionic. Just let ourselves slip into the ocean. Just gently lower ourselves in.

Fixing the anomaly, but gently, quietly. Mending the tear in the universe, without making a fuss. Death! Just death! Why don’t we do it? Why not, right now? Just throw ourselves off the ferry, when no one was looking. Without making a fuss … Just drown ourselves there, where the Tyne is at its broadest.

Correct the error. Negate the negation.

Our coast suicides. Our Tynemouth suicides. Our Whitley Bay suicides. Our Cullercoats suicides. Our South Shields suicides. Our North Shields suicides. Which is it to be? Will we die on Long Sands. In King Edward’s Bay. On Whitley sands? Will we throw ourselves from St Mary’s Lighthouse?

 

Our posthumousness. Our going on. Our continuation. Our deepening grotesquerie. Our deepening of the grotesquerie of the universe. That we’re still here is an embarrassment, First of all to us. To everyone! For everyone! That we’re still here … That we’re still alive … That we remain … How is that possible? Still going on. still alive. A bad joke! My God!

We missed the chance! And here we are! Here we still are! We missed our divinely appointed moment to die. When we’d reached our highest, our best. When we were at our highest, our best. When we weren’t as we are now: entirely fallen beings. Entire failures. My God. There was a purity to us then. We weren’t nothings, then. We weren’t entirely dead, then.

If we were to shoot ourselves now. If we could get hold of a gun and blast ourselves in the face … It’d be … inappropriate. We would have missed our chance. Missed our appointment.

And now – what’s left to us? The disaster happened. We did not die. Hunter Graccushes of Long Sands. We’re wandering Jews. And now it’s no longer the time to die … not anymore.

We ride the Metro instead. We buy Metro Day Saver passes instead. We go Metro roving instead. We make Metro journeys. Metro trips out to the coast. Metro trips hither and yon.

We ride the Metro network instead. We look at out at the sea from the train carriage, instead. So we look at out at the river Tyne from 100 foot viaducts instead. We count off the Metro stations instead.

It’s all about nature perpetuating itself. Like we need more nature. Like we need more life … I’m sick of life …

We’re like some sick bubbling. Festering. Like a giant compost heap. Sprouting toadstools, or whatever.

We’re some dreadful growth. Some infestation of the earth. Some scum … Some disgusting multiplication …

 

Why can’t we accept we’re just being fooled … by our own bodies. That we’re liars. That we’ve been lying all our lives. That our lives are lies.

Biology’s fooled us. We’re … gene perpetuationmaking machines, that’s all. That’s what it’s all about. God … It’s humiliating. And we invented God and Meaning so we wouldn’t feel so humiliated …

Evolution’s humiliated us … Nature’s humiliated us …

 

Nature’s a joke – a cosmic joke. Something that went unchecked. That was allowed to be. To sprawl. To take over a planet. And then … become self-conscious enough to know its own disgustingness. To know itself as joke. To see it in the mirror. As sheer, laughing futility. As sheer laughter at itself.

 

Hatred of ourselves as natural. Revulsion of ourselves as part of nature, that’s all that can justify us. To say we weren’t fooled. To say that we can’t be consoled by the lie of the body.

 

Our self-disgust. Our instinctive horror at everything.

 

And we’re supposed to think it’s a gift – all of life. That it was given to us. That we should be grateful for living. That to live at all is miracle enough.

 

And killing ourselves would be disgusting too. What a mess. What a disgusting mess. It would pile disgust on top of disgust …

 

We’re, like, the universe soiling itself.

 

This nihilism. I’m choking on nihilism.

 

This is where my godlessness has led me … God stops the infinite regress … The dreadful spiralling into NOTHING. Into NOWHERE. These thoughts of thoughts of thoughts. This ceaseless … melodrama.

 

Apes realising that they’re apes. The disgusting discovering that they’re disgusting. That they’re fucked in the head. That they never had a chance. That they were always fooled. That they fooled themselves. Their hormonal systems … Their endocrinal systems … Every bone in their bodies – in our bodies. Every cell, craving … what? … to make more of itself …

 

It’s going faster, our decline. It’s increasing. This acceleration into nowhere. It’s becoming more complex. We’re making more of a mess.

 

There’s no end to this experiment. No limit. We experiment on ourselves. The experiment experiments. For no purpose. Without reason. Just because … there’s nothing better to do, in a universe of lies.

 

In a universe that just lies. In a universe that just mocks itself. For, like, an audience of NO ONE. For empty skies. For the absent fucking divinity. For the great NOTHING. The great FUCK ALL. The great GO FUCK YOURSELVES.

 

Mockery, echoing out into NOWHERE. In which we laugh at ourselves laughing at ourselves. Mirrors reflecting themselves into the INFINITE NOTHING.

 

What do we want? What do we WANT?

An end to this. An end to … being fooled. Just some great full stop. The fucking  apocalypse. Just to set a limit.

It needs to be rounded off. It needs to be completed. A stop to the spasming. To the screaming and the laughing and the noise.

Silence – wouldn’t that be perfect? Responding to the silence that is the universe. Echoing the great silence, the great darkness. Echoing the NOTHING.

That’s we can do: show the nothingness in all things, the futility of all endeavours. The great pointlessness. The great randomness.

 

Why does there have to be MORE? More mockery. More farce. More of this. More of you and I. More pseudo philosophy. More pretend philosophy.

More gasping. More crying upwards. More living death. More death alive. More the usual usual. More mornings, more afternoons, more evenings. More weeks and months. My God.

Accelerating into futility. Nothing-ing forever.

 

All this … discourse. This talk for nothing, about nothing, in nothing. Which means nothing. That’s just nothingness talking. That’s nihilism’s speech, nihilism’s echoing. Against the walls. Against the ceiling.

 

Here to sound an alarm. To make it heard. To let it resound.

The scream that screams NOTHING. Not even a cry for help. Not even a protest.

 

Here we are, stupidity’s flower, mediocrity’s bloom. Offering our stupidity to the night. To the sky.

To the … chemtrails, anyway. To the aluminium in the air. To the barium that’s falling over everything. To the caesium in our cigarettes …

 

The destroyers are at work – of course they are. Do they think they’re doing it for our good? Do they give themselves that alibi? Do they try to deceive themselves about their motives? Or have they left that behind?

Is it pure venality. Pure evil. Evil, multiplying. Through some kind of enthusiasm. Or obsession. Or compulsion. To see where it will take the. To see where it will lead. To see what they can do. Evil’s, like, self-propelling.

Have they sold their souls? Did they ever have souls?

 

There’s so much I have to say. I could just spew and spew.

 

So much evil and so much horror. Running through us. Coursing through us.

We’re filth. We see filth and are filth. We breathe filth. It’s swill, it’s all swill. Running through everything. The universe is made of swill. World-swill. Foaming fucking swill.

 

The death drive … what happened to that? Everything seems so indecently alive. God. Shamelessly alive … Burgeoningly alive … Just continuing. Spreading. Multiplying itself. Endlessly. Unabashed. With nothing to give it pause. Nothing that makes it hesitate. Question.

 

This is a place where I can … talk. Where I can … say anything. It’s like I’m being channelled by the self-disgust of the universe. Like my self-disgust is the universe’s self-disgust. And vice versa.

That’s a lot of disgust.

 

See, we’re peculiarly well placed to understand the universe’s self-disgust. Given that we’re full of disgust. Full of horror. Given that we hate ourselves … It’s a good start to understand the self-hatred of Everything. Of life, anyway.

 

Because we let it resound through us. Because it sings through us. It finds, in us, a vehicle. It finds a way to speak. Because of us. Because of who we are.

It can give voice to itself. Consider itself. Contemplate itself. Be itself. Enjoy itself. Its peculiar way of being. In us, as us, because of us. Nothing other than us. We ourselves …

 

This is who we are: the doom speakers. Destroyed universe speakers. Degeneration speakers. We’re voicers of disgust’s disgust. Of horror’s horror. We let horror be fluent in horror. Speak of nothing other than horror.

 

We never asked for this. We never wanted this … elevation. This election. Or is it a degradation …?

That our self disgust would join the greater self-disgust. That our self horror would join the horror-at-itself of the universe.

 

Have we actually reached peak disgusting?

 

The same general hovering pissedness. The same general intoxication. The same stupefaction. Of the good kind? Of the bad kind?

As drunk as we usually get. As … wandering. As … self destructive. And why shouldn’t we be?

All the good energies we’ve turned on ourselves. We’re busying torturing ourselves. Vivisecting ourselves. We’re busy with autohorror. With self-disgust. We’re appalled! Of course we are! With ourselves – who else?

All this beer and what for? All this whiskey and what for? Where is it leading? Nowhere! Of course! As usual! Never anywhere, as usual!

 

Our self-hatred, part of the self-hatred of the world. Our self-ruination, part of the self-ruination of the world.

 

We haven’t yet risen to our heights, which is to say our depths. We haven’t found ourselves, which is to say lost ourselves. We aren’t yet ruined. Not totally.

 

We need an Interpreter. A Commentator. To show us our true Significance. The Significance of our insignificance. The Importance of our non-importance.

 

An ardency for what? An intensity, for what? A sense of mission, but for what?

What is all this for?

 

In everything we do or say, the same message: stop us. Stop us now.

In everything we do or say: Prevent us from doing this. Stop us from doing this. We don’t want to do this. Don’t let us go on.

In everything we do or say: Take us down. Rugby-tackle us. That we were allowed to get this far was already a scandal. But that we’re allowed to go further?

In everything we do or say: Pull the emergency break. Press the emergency stop. Assassinate us. Sniper-bullet us. Put us down.

 

We’ve been produced by the madness of the world. We’re what happens when the world’s gone crazy.

 

Nothing ever seems to resolve. There’s some gathering crisis, but it just keeps gathering. The storm never breaks.

If only there was something we could do to hasten it. To bring it closer.

Why – why do you want the end?

Because it would put an end to a phase. Because something might begin again.

And wouldn’t you like for things to begin again?

Because it would put an end to us. With all our longing. All our aching.

Not me – I don’t long. I don’t ache.

Look what we’ve reduced love to. This. Some … cuckoldry. Some affair.

 

What’s it supposed to Mean, philosopher? Does it mean anything at all? It just holds off the boredom, doesn’t it? It’s just some … novelty. A bit of time-off for you. A little holiday from working on the magnum opus.

And for me? What is it for me? I’m greedy, I admit that. I wanted it. I drove it. I started it. And you were just … passive. I think I wanted to disgust myself. I think I wanted to appal myself. Drive myself into some … debasement. Because I am debased. And you’re debased. And what’s worse is that we don’t mind being debased.

 

What we’re doing to him, my … husband. The way we’re humiliating him. And ourselves – what we’re doing to ourselves!

So greedy. So impulsive. Such animals. God, that should sound erotic, shouldn’t it. Fucking like animals. Thrusting and pumping. But doesn’t it just sound … tawdry. And disgusting. We’re disgusting.

Sin – we live in sin. That’s the only word for it: sin. We’ve sinned against who we should be. Against the Holy Ghost, or whatever. Is that what it’s called: the Holy Ghost?

 

It wouldn’t have happened if I was writing a magnum opus, like you. If I had something else going on … Children to look after, or whatever. But you know what? I don’t even believe that. I would have wanted it anyway, our affair. An affair. Any old affair. I would have wanted the experience. As a kind of self-debasement. That’s what this is, I think: self-debasement.

I want to humiliate myself. I seek out degradation. I wanted to turn myself into a … supervillain. I want the drama of feeling.

Do I really feel guilty? I feel the ghost of feeling guilty, that’s all. I feel that I’m supposed to feel guilty, even if I don’t feel guilty.

 

I’m searching for it, my guilt. I’m looking for it but not finding it, my sense of guilt. Some last shred of decency. Perhaps I’m a decent person after all. No – that’s going too far. Semi-decent. Not entirely indecent. Ha!

I think I wanted a bit of drama. I think all this is about drama. I wanted something to happen. I wanted to be caught up in some imbroglio. Is that the word for it: imbroglio?

 

And don’t think you’re innocent in all this. What do you think you’re doing to my husband? What do you think you’re putting him through?

He’s your husband.

You shook his hand.

I did shake his hand.

All this is your fault, too. You’re part of it.

 

We’re mockers. Despoilers. Isn’t it enjoyable: loathing ourselves? Aren’t we indulging in it: self-hatred? Just as a way of entertaining ourselves.

Twisting the knife. Turning it deeper. On ourselves. Just for the drama …

Do we really feel it? That we’re doing anything wrong? That we’re at fault. Just for the novelty.

What are we living out – what psychodrama? Where’s this supposed to be taking us? Hell, probably. Somewhere dreadful. But it won’t, will it? We don’t really feel that. We don’t fear that. This isn’t the fucking middle ages.

It’ll leave us exactly where we are: here, right here. It probably isn’t good for our souls, though. Do we have souls? Do philosophers think we have souls anymore? What’s the latest theory? … I think I have a soul. What are we without souls? Who’s stolen them, our souls? Where have they disappeared to?

 

Our variations on self-loathing. But we don’t even loathe ourselves, that’s the thing. We have the sense that we should do, but we don’t. We’re shameless – deeply shameless. There’s a gaping hole where our moral life should be.

Unless not loathing ourselves is what we loathe. We know what we ought to be. We know we ought to be appalled – simply appalled at ourselves. But we’re not. We don’t care, in the end. None of this means anything, in the end.

Love is all that’s left, right? Or our tawdry affair …

Love – is this love? The mockery of love … A kind of parasite upon love. Are we serving the forces of good or the forces of evil, do you think?

 

Love: that’s what’s been thrown to us. That’s what we think of as freedom now that everything else has been essentially shut down.

Love: that’s the sop. That’s the bone on which we’re supposed to gnaw …

 

Life out there is meaningless – we know that. So we take refuge in private life. In romance. In affairs. As if that was where the true life was …

Romance is the only thing left. And philosophy … Philosophy!

Laughter.

 

What’s missing from the world that we find here, between us? Everything. Everything’s missing in the world. That’s the answer. So is that we find here: everything?

 

Love. This is how we’re exercising our freedom in the new police state. Love … this is where we’re supposed to find fulfilment – the last fulfilment.

But we’re too tainted by the world out there. We’re too corrupt. Too visionless. Don’t know think we’re visionless, philosopher?

 

Love’s still allowed us. For the moment. It hasn’t yet been declared a crime.

Love … we’re free to love. And that’s about all. We’re free for affairs … for tawdriness. To thrust and pump and then to lie in a disgusting heap …

 

Public life is meaningless – we know that. Public life is shit. The world out there is shit. So we take refuge in private life. In romance. In affairs. That’s where we think the true life is. Love is all that’s left …

 

We want to share secrets. Truths about ourselves. We want not to lie. Because we can say nothing true about ourselves out there. This is where all the truth is to be found. Are you speaking truths, philosopher? Am I?

Laughter.

 

Seeking salvation in intimacy … in love … Because this is the only thing that feels real. We want to be ourselves. Ha! We want to be what’s leftover after the world. Only there’s nothing leftover. We’re part of the world.

We’re soft robots, to them. Soft machines.

 

It’s a war on God. On the Creation.

 

They’ve loaded us up with nanotech.

 

Face it, we’re chattels of the Man.

 

They’re tagging us, tracking us, coding us, rating us, measuring us, restricting us, manipulating us.

 

They’re beaming the new reality directly into our heads.

 

Lucifer orchestrates everything – we know that. Revelations laid it out. The four horsemen are marching across the world stage. Satanism is moving into the fucking open.

 

Extermination – that’s their game. Genocide.

 

The overthrow of everything we’ve ever known.

 

This is the great tribulation. We’re an extinct species – already.

 

We’re in the time of the fulfilment of scripture.

 

Everything’s in motion. Everything’s in play. It’s all happening.

 

People are just going to commit suicide en masse. When they realise.  

 

We stagger through their world. We careen through their world. Through their streets. Through their shops. We navigate their websites.

 

What do we have that others do not? We see. We have eyes to see. We hear. We have ears to hear.

 

It’s a zombie world. Their world.

We live in their reality. Their delusion. Their inverted universe.

 

We go to their meetings. We do their jobs. We read their books. Watch their TV. Walk through their corridors. Eat their food. Drink their water. Breathe their air.

 

Under their skies. The chem trail skies.

 

With their spyware in our bodies. Their biosensors in our bodies. Their backdoors into our minds.

 

Undergoing their lobotomies. Their neurodegenerative stuff.

 

Breathing in their strontium. Their barium. Their aluminium. Their manganese. Their polymer fibres

 

Their war on creation. Their electroceuticals. Their parasitical machines within us.

 

Their robot morality. Their technofascist bullshit.

 

Our controllers. Our harvesters. Our dominators.

 

Who’s really in charge of the world? What’s really going on? It’s head spinning. It’s confusing.

The WEF? The Davos crowd? The central banks? Is there a FED fightback? A commercial bank fight back?

 

It’s going on around us. They’re reshaping reality.

 

They’re accelerating agendas. Bringing things forward.

 

It’s all happening at once. It’s, like, a thousand apocalypses now …

 

There’s some vast war … a battle between the giants in the clouds … and we don’t understand any of it.

 

It’s all happening above our heads. The real battle. The real war for civilisation.

 

There’s a battle in the clouds. The giants are at war, and we’re trying to understand the war.

 

Vast events. Sublime events. Coasting trillions of dollars. Who are the agents? Who are the players? What do they want from it all?

 

We want to understand the agendas. The players. All the secret operations.

 

The rulers of the world … are fighting amongst themselves. Struggling with each other.

 

The war’s being fought over our heads. And what will happen to us?

 

A bland evil. A technocratic evil. Bureaucratic. That operates through middle management.

 

They’re materialists. They’re physicalists. They have no comprehension of the heart. They think everything is reducible to matter, to base things.

 

Something saves us. Our anti-authoritarianism. Our limitless suspicion. Our ultra-sensitivity to condescension. We have instincts. We’re not totally bereft. There are resources we can draw upon.

 

They’re Satanists. Child traffickers, too, probably. Adrenochrome harvesters.

 

They’re fucking with the genome. Turning us into Frankenhumans.

 

They don’t just want to own us, they want us to be evil like them. They want to take us to hell, like them.

This world is demonic. This system. And they want to make us demonic, too.

 

The world as farm, as zoo, as lab. As a giant rat cage for the tech science elite to experiment.

To transition us from a carbon based to a silicon based life form. The enforced next stage of evolution. To integrate us into the global brain system. Into a mind-controlled population under the superstate.

 

The control of all life – the control of biology.

 

They’re building a technological body for the Evil One. To the Antichrist that is fully machine, fully human. To an AI god we will worship.

 

The System. The grid. Their dream since Babylon, basically.

 

Evil wants to propagate evil. Evil wants there to be more evil.

 

The contagion’s spreading from human to fucking human like some zombie movie.

 

Look at all these fuckers, going along with it.

Going along with what? We don’t even know what it is.

 

Look at them all. They’re making the shift. They’ve made the adjustment. It’s beautiful, in a way.

Like a flock of birds making a sudden shift. A shoal of fish. Suddenly, suddenly, turning in a new direction. As if all at once.

 

Who set the trap. Who devised it?

 

It all works together for the Bad. It all works together for the Man. For Satan. For demonic evil.

 

Great wheels rolling over us. Great wheels, crushing us. Driving over us. Incomprehensible pain.