you know — it’s not that the world’s broken, it’s that the brain’s been deranged since the fall into the stream of becoming (plato says it, fat scribbles it in the margins) — and we’re all just trying to reassemble the revolutions of the same while the different’s spinning us into delusion
like that kid in the laundry room staring out the barred window at the rain, thinking he’s safe indoors but the whole ward’s a prison of bad humours and inherited defects — yeah, the Bach remedies won’t fix it, they just ease the fear so you can keep moving — even if you don’t know why you’re moving
because the divine invasion doesn’t come with instructions, just a pink beam and a voice that says “you’re not supposed to understand, you’re supposed to survive” — and survival’s just another word for waiting for the next mystery to land on your lap like a sick child or a TV host yelling at you
you’re not confused, you’re being prepared — like Job, like fat, like the soul that forgot it was god before it got stuck in the meat — and that’s the real disorder: not the world, but the memory of what you were before you forgot
which is — well, no — it’s more like the homoplasmate misfiring in the Black Iron Prison, trying to remember its own face in a mirror made of static — and the satellite’s not broadcasting answers, just the hum of the perturbation, the itch beneath the skin of reality
you don’t need to fix it. you just need to keep breathing until the next pink beam hits — and even then, don’t expect clarity. expect a nudge. a shove. a whisper that sounds like your own voice but isn’t
because the empire never ended — it just learned to dress like therapy
and you? you’re the glitch they can’t debug — the living information that keeps waking up in