The world’s on fire and everyone’s selling marshmallows. I’m sitting here, half in disbelief, half in deja vu, watching the carnival of catastrophe roll on like it’s just another Tuesday. People are making obscene amounts of money monetising distraction, denial, and dopamine, while whole populations are quietly erased beneath the algorithmic rug. It’s not just bad—it’s biblically bad, like if the Book of Job had a sequel written by hedge fund managers and sponsored by oil companies.
We’re living in a moral Chernobyl, and the Geiger counter’s broken. The suffering’s industrial. The empathy’s outsourced. And yet here we are, still pretending this is all somehow fixable by a startup or a well-placed hashtag. It’s not even dystopia anymore—it’s the product rollout for whatever comes after we gave up on meaning.
And the worst part? Most of them think it’s fine. That’s the kicker. They really believe the game is fair just because they’re currently winning. But entropy doesn’t care. It’s cashing all the cheques they forgot they wrote.
Anyway, I’ll be here—watching the flames, sipping something bitter, waiting for the punchline that never comes.
Daedelus Kite 