What you see is all there is, a closed ideology fakelore, a mazeway garden, fruiting failed perspectives and shared paranoias. Quant illusions, analysis is paralysis. Divert and subvert. Launch determines orbit for every apex, when the monkey bells the gorilla they call it jungle justice, a harmless bruising, the shot before the anesthetized heart. But, the kakistocracy provides: 24 hour water, electric fusion fleshlights, a wankbank, weird excretion dependent, generative of natural-adjacent, CRISPR life, selected for a skidmarked sky. An unspoken quale, smells like nothing else, deep in the boojum and bafflegab, counterphobic, insufficient evidence of normal on the weirdo safari. Quis potest sapere audere?
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