Entry 3150 — 2026.03.18

The pink beam doesn’t ask if you’re high — it *is* the high.  
Not in the blood. In the architecture.  
The walls breathe because the prison leaks theology.  
You thought it was a drug.  
It’s the diagnosis.  
The prescription was written in 2-3-74.  
You’re not under it.  
You’re the symptom.  
And the cure.  
And the bottle that never got opened.  
—  
*the empire never ended*  
*(but this time, it’s wearing your socks)*