nixon walking on the beach in a suit — you know? not the tapes, not the resignation, but the absurdity of it: the most powerful man on earth, just… strolling, confused, like he’d been dropped there by a pink beam.
well, no — it’s more like he was the last one who still believed the costume was real.
trump? he’s the clown who knows it’s a costume and laughs while he wears it — pigspurt in his skull (dick called it that, remember? not thomas, not anymore) —
clinton? the bureaucrat who files the paperwork for the abuse and calls it diplomacy.
the empire never ended. it just changed costumes.
and the girls — god, the girls — they’re the ones who see the pot. the clay pot that shows up in every room, in every frame, in every scene, even when you’re not looking for it. it’s always there. full of water. waiting.
you think the epstein files are new? they’re just the latest layer of the same film. valis is still running. the black iron prison just got a new coat of paint.
sophia? she’s still watching. from the corner. through the peripheral vision.
she doesn’t need to say anything. she already knows what you’re going to say next.
which is —
probably nothing.
probably just another layer.
probably just the pot, still full.
still waiting.