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bookstr

(52 articles)

Behind the Design: Wasted Blood

About the creative process behind the design of Wasted Blood, a poetry collection by bitpunk.fm

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#livingmen 2 - Kapitel 6

Wahre Grösse entfaltet sich im Echo anderer Visionäre. Sie entsteht dort, wo Ideen verschmelzen und gemeinsame Ziele ein massives Fundament bilden. Dieser Abschnitt entführt dich in die tiefe Mechanik des Masterminds. Du erfährst, wie du dein Ego vom isolierenden Schutzschild zum reinen Treibstoff für das Kollektiv transformierst. Wir tauchen ein in die Kunst der authentischen Führung, bei der bewusste Verletzlichkeit deine grösste Anziehungskraft bildet. Lerne, deine mentalen Gärten von Gift zu befreien und vergangene Wunden als goldene Trophäen deiner Resilienz zu tragen. Bereite dich darauf vor, den Spiegel deiner Mitmenschen zu nutzen und deine wahre Position im Netzwerk der #livingmen einzunehmen.

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AI Romance Scams: The Long Con That Never Sleeps

The romance long con is automated now — patient, personalized, thousands of victims in parallel. The pig-butchering playbook stage by stage, why you can't spot the bot from the words, and the behavioral rules that end it.

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Deepfake Video Calls: Why "Seeing Them Live" No Longer Proves It's Them

Real-time deepfakes broke the video call as proof of identity. What the Arup case showed, which visual tells still sometimes work, and the out-of-band verification habit — callback, code word, dual approval — that doesn't expire.

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#livingmen 2 - Kapitel 5

Stell dir vor, jeder Konflikt in deinem Leben wäre ein reines Geschenk. Ein Werkzeug, das dich formt und stärkt. Was, wenn genau diese schwierigen Momente der Schlüssel zu deiner wahren Stärke wären? Die meisten Menschen meiden Konflikte wie die Pest. Sie sehen in ihnen ausschließlich Schmerz, Frustration und Zeitverschwendung. Was wäre, wenn du die Perspektive änderst? Wenn du erkennst, dass jeder Zusammenstoß, jede Spannung und jede Herausforderung in Beziehungen eine verborgene Chance birgt? Dieses Kapitel wird deine Sicht auf Konflikte für immer verändern. Du wirst lernen, wie du aus Reibung Wachstum erschaffst, aus Spannungen Stärke gewinnst und aus scheinbaren Niederlagen deine größten Siege formst. Denn wie ein rauer Stein, der durch beständiges Schleifen zum Edelstein wird, bist auch du bereit zu glänzen – sobald du verstehst, wie du den Schleifprozess für dich nutzt. Bist du bereit, Konflikte als dein persönliches Training für Größe anzunehmen? Dann tauche ein in die Kunst, Beziehungen durch Bewusstsein zu meistern und zum Leader zu werden, der andere inspiriert.

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#livingmen 2 - Kapitel 5

Was, wenn deine größte Stärke nicht in Argumenten, sondern in deiner inneren Haltung liegt? Dieser Abschnitt enthüllt, warum Liebe die mächtigste Frequenz ist – und wie du sie nutzt, um andere auf tiefster Ebene zu erreichen. Erfahre, warum echte Überzeugung aus dem Herzen kommt, wie du deine Selbstliebe als Fundament einsetzt und warum selbst banale Alltagshandlungen zu spiritueller Praxis werden können. Ein Wegweiser für diejenigen, die lernen wollen, wie man nicht durch Druck, sondern durch reine Absicht bewegt – im Geschäft, in Beziehungen und vor allem mit sich selbst.

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#livingmen 2 - Kapitel 5

Wahre Überzeugungskraft erwächst aus einer gefüllten Mitte. Bevor du andere inspirierst, stärkst Du zuerst dein eigenes Fundament. Dieser Abschnitt verbindet innere Klarheit mit praktischer Herzkraft und zeigt Dir, wie authentische Präsenz Abschlüsse natürlich entstehen lässt. Du erfährst, wie Selbstliebe zur stärksten Ressource wird und wie du deine Vision mit voller Überzeugung in greifbare Ergebnisse verwandelst. Tauche ein in zwei kraftvolle Wege zum Ziel und entdecke, wie Herzenergie jeden Wunsch in Realität formt.

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Der Code der Ungleichheit

Spannung für Augen und Ohren: Erlebe ‚Die Bytes Detektive‘ als Lese-Krimi oder als packendes Hörspiel. A² Beschreibung: Ein gelöschtes Dokument führt das Detektivduo Aza und Avatar tief in das fehlerhafte Betriebssystem der Gesellschaft. Während der Mittelstand im Hamsterrad aus Rekord-Abgaben und Steuern gefangen ist, hat sich eine legislative Elite im Verborgenen ein unantastbares System aus krisenfesten Pensionen und Schlupflöchern programmiert. Die Bits Detektive nehmen die Fährte der unsichtbaren Architekten dieser Ungerechtigkeit auf – und stoßen auf ein perfektes, vollkommen legales Verbrechen mitten im Herzen der Macht. Ein packendes, sozialkritisches Noir-Hörspiel über die Illusion von Gerechtigkeit und das systematische Ausbluten der fleißigen Masse.

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#livingmen 2 - Kapitel 4

Im Kern geht es um eine einzige Weiche: Lässt du dich von Umständen treiben oder steuerst du selbst durch bewusste Disziplin? Der Abschnitt legt offen, wie Ausreden und das endlose Zerreden von Hindernissen dich im Stillstand halten, während entschlossenes Handeln und intuitive Entscheidungen echte Dynamik erzeugen. Er fordert dazu auf, den Komfort der Passivität zu verlassen und die eigene Energie gezielt in messbare Schritte zu kanalisieren – bevor aus bloßen Worten Taten werden.

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#livingmen 2 - Kapitel 4

Jede Begegnung, jeder Berufsweg, jede Partnerschaft beginnt mit einem stillen Impuls: der Wahl. Dieser Abschnitt begleitet dich durch die Dynamik bewusster Entscheidungen. Wir erkunden, wie du Herz und Verstand ins Gleichgewicht bringst, zügige Entschlüsse in mentale Weite verwandelst und das Steuer fest in die Hand nimmst. Erfahre, wie du aus bloßer Reaktion eigenständige Führung formst und im gegenwärtigen Moment echte Präsenz lebst. Der Pfad zum bewussten Gestalter startet genau hier.

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KI / AI - Das Flackern im Netz

Spannung für Augen und Ohren: Erlebe ‚Die Bytes Detektive‘ als Lese-Krimi oder als packendes Hörspiel A². Kurzbeschreibung (Teaser): Ein brandaktueller Cyber-Thriller über den faustischen Pakt der modernen Tech-Welt: Was passiert, wenn die Künstliche Intelligenz, der wir unsere kritische Infrastruktur anvertrauen, nicht neutral ist, sondern im Verborgenen ein fremdes geopolitisches Narrativ exekutiert? Die Bits-Detektive Aza und Avatar blicken hinter die glänzende Fassade von Kosteneffizienz und scheinbarer Offenheit und stoßen auf eine unsichtbare Waffe im Silizium.

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Der Quanten Toast

Spannung für Augen und Ohren: Erlebe ‚Die Bytes Detektive‘ als Lese-Krimi oder als packendes Hörspiel. A² Kurzbeschreibung: In diesem Fall untersuchten die Bits-Detektive die drohende Gefahr durch Quantencomputer für das globale Finanzsystem. Während der skeptische Bürokrat "Qubi Toasten" auf die zentrale Sicherheit vertraut, ist seien gute Freundin "Saferin" und die technologische Überlegenheit des agilen, dezentralen Codes ihm ein Schritt voraus.

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Die Autopsie eines digitalen Phantoms "LaxWirePayCard"

Spannung für Augen und Ohren: Erlebe ‚Die Bytes Detektive‘ als Lese-Krimi oder als packendes Hörspiel. A² Kurzbeschreibung: Wir haben den LexPay-Komplex, seziert .Wir haben gesehen, wie 1,9 Milliarden Euro als binäre Phantome erschaffen wurden und wie ein ganzes System aus Wächtern, Sehern und Politikern wegsah, während ein Maskierter Pilot die Welt betrog. Tauche ein in dem Krimi und Suche das fehlende Bit mit Aza & Avatar.

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CBDC - Der Algorithmus der Freiheit ?

Spannung für Augen und Ohren: Erlebe ‚Die Bytes Detektive‘ als Lese-Krimi oder als packendes Hörspiel. Kurzbeschreibung: Von der Vision zum Verhängnis Die Stadt, 2028. Die Geschichte beginnt mit dem sozialen und finanziellen Tod von Dem Typ, einem einstigen Spitzenfunktionär der EZB und glühenden Verfechter des digitalen Euro. In einem luxuriösen Penthouse muss er feststellen, dass seine Wallet ohne Vorwarnung gesperrt wurde. Der Grund: Eine algorithmische Entscheidung des Systems, das er selbst mitgeschaffen hat. Er ist nun ein „unfreiwilliger Akteur“ in einer Welt, die Bargeld längst zur Antiquität erklärt hat. Ohne Credits ist er unsichtbar.

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#livingmen 2 – Kapitel 3

Neid bestätigt deine wachsende Stärke und markiert den Moment, in dem du die Grenzen des Durchschnitts hinter dir lässt. Wahre Führung entfaltet ihre Kraft im bewussten Tragen deiner Präsenz und befreit andere, ihr eigenes Licht zu entfalten. Ein Artikel über radikale Eigenverantwortung, Resilienz als Muskel und den Mut, den ersten Schritt zu tun.

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#livingmen 2 – Kapitel 3

Mut entfaltet seine volle Wirkung, wenn du ihn bewusst pflegst und täglich in deinem Handeln verankerst. In diesem Abschnitt erfährst du, wie du innere Stärke trainierst, dein Ego zum Leitstern für ein selbstbestimmtes Leben machst und deine Vision in handfeste Schritte übersetzt. Wir gehen der Frage nach, wie du gleichzeitig nach den Sternen greifen und tief verwurzelt bleiben kannst – inspiriert von der stillen Kraft der Bäume und der Klarheit deines eigenen Atems. Lerne, dein Umfeld bewusst zu gestalten, Unterstützung als Zeichen von Stärke zu erkennen und deine Berufung mit Disziplin und Herzblut zu leben. Dieser Text lädt dich ein, die gelesenen Impulse unmittelbar in gelebte Praxis zu verwandeln und dein Leben aktiv mitzugestalten. Nimm Stift und Papier, fülle ein Glas Wasser und beginne die Arbeit an deinem lebendigen Fundament.

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Das PetroBitDollar-Protokoll

Spannung für Augen und Ohren: Erlebe ‚Die Bytes Detektive‘ als Lese-Krimi oder als packendes Hörspiel auf Spotify & Co.

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The Tibetan Book of the Dead

![](https://blossom.primal.net/47ffd1495d1b87e6db0310657ed93e011dfc5d5b0ab3be0ca3c1e09c860e1010.jpg) # The Cartography of Consciousness: A Comprehensive Exploration of the Bardo Thodol The text widely known in the West as the **Tibetan Book of the Dead** is fundamentally misunderstood by its popular title. In Tibetan, it is the Bardo Thodol — "*The Great Liberation Through Hearing in the Intermediate State*." Rather than a morbid fascination with the end of life, it is a sophisticated, psychologically rich manual for navigating the nature of consciousness itself. It serves as a bridge between life, death, and rebirth, offering a profound commentary on the human condition, the illusion of the ego, and the mechanics of reality. ### Origins, Authorship, and the Role of Padmasambhava The origins of the Bardo Thodol are rooted in the esoteric traditions of Tibetan Buddhism, specifically the Nyingma school. Its creation is attributed to Padmasambhava (also known as Guru Rinpoche), the legendary 8th-century tantric master who brought Vajrayana Buddhism to Tibet. Padmasambhava’s contribution to Tibetan Buddhism is immeasurable; he subjugated the local spirits of Tibet, transforming them into protectors of the Dharma, and established the country's first Buddhist monastery at Samye. Recognising that the people of his era were not yet spiritually mature enough to comprehend the profound psychological truths of the Bardo Thodol, tradition states that he and his chief consort, Yeshe Tsogyal, concealed the text. It became a terma (hidden treasure), resting dormant until the 14th century when it was discovered by the tertön (treasure revealer) Karma Lingpa. This tradition of hidden texts ensures that teachings are revealed precisely when a culture is ready to metabolise them. ### Structure of the Text: The Three Bardos and the Anatomy of Death To understand the structure of the Bardo Thodol, we must clarify the nature of the journey. The book's formal structural chapters are divided into three specific bardos (intermediate states), these concepts you noted are vital components of the Tibetan cosmological and ritual experience of death: Kham (Elements/Realms): Refers to the psychophysical elements that painfully dissolve at the onset of death (earth into water, water into fire, etc.). Chögyal (Dharma King): Represents Yama, the Lord of Death, who features prominently later in the text to judge the deceased's karma. Dö (Thread-Cross Rituals): Refers to the accompanying funerary rites and physical offerings made by the living to appease spirits and protect the deceased's consciousness. The core textual structure guides the deceased through a 49-day timeline divided into three distinct stages: 1. The Chikhai Bardo (The Bardo of the Moment of Death) At the moment of physical death, the physical elements (kham) dissolve, and the consciousness is stripped of its ego-identity. The deceased is suddenly confronted by the "Primary Clear Light." This is the ultimate, unconditioned reality — Nirvana itself. If the individual can recognise this light as their own mind, they achieve instant liberation. Most, however, are terrified by the ego-loss and black out. 2. The Chonyid Bardo (The Bardo of Luminous Reality) Awakening from the blackout, the consciousness enters a visionary state. Over several days, it is approached by 42 Peaceful Deities and 58 Wrathful Deities. The text's radical psychological insight is that these deities are not real. They are archetypal projections of the deceased's own mind — manifestations of their karma, virtues, and neuroses. The wrathful, blood-drinking demons are simply the peaceful deities perceived through the lens of human fear. 3. The Sidpa Bardo (The Bardo of Rebirth) Failing to recognise the deities as self-projections, the consciousness is swept up by the "winds of karma." Here, the deceased encounters Chögyal (the Lord of Death), who holds up the "Mirror of Karma" reflecting all past deeds. Driven by desire and fear, the soul is pulled toward the Six Realms of existence (Gods, Jealous Gods, Humans, Animals, Hungry Ghosts, or Hell-beings) to seek a new body. The text provides desperate, final instructions on how to "close the womb door" and secure a favourable rebirth. ### Philosophical Underpinnings: Karma and the Four Noble Truths The Bardo Thodol is an operationalised version of the Four Noble Truths. It demonstrates that suffering (the First Truth) continues beyond the grave so long as ignorance and craving (the Second Truth) persist. The entire text is a methodology for achieving the cessation of suffering (the Third Truth) through the path of radical awareness (the Fourth Truth). It also profoundly illustrates the mechanics of Karma and Rebirth. Karma in this text is not a system of cosmic reward and punishment dispensed by a separate god; it is a psychological momentum. You are not punished for your sins; you are punished by them. The hellish visions in the Bardo are the literal manifestations of a mind that spent its life cultivating anger, greed, and ignorance. ### Funerary Rites: Liberation Through Hearing Culturally, the text is a practical manual. In Tibetan tradition, when a person dies, a lama (teacher) sits by the body — or an effigy of the deceased — and reads the Bardo Thodol aloud for 49 days. Because the "mental body" in the Bardo is highly clairvoyant and sensitive, it can hear the lama's voice. The lama acts as a spiritual GPS, constantly reminding the confused consciousness: "O nobly born, do not be distracted. That terrifying sound is just the sound of your own mind. That blinding light is your true nature. Go toward it." It is an act of supreme compassion, ensuring no one dies alone or unguided. ### Western Reception and the Role of Robert Thurman The book’s journey to the West has heavily influenced its interpretation. - The Theosophical and Psychological Eras: The first English translation by Walter Evans-Wentz (1927) coined the title "Tibetan Book of the Dead," linking it stylistically to the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Carl Jung provided an influential psychological commentary, recognising the Bardo deities as perfect parallels to his theory of the Collective Unconscious. In the 1960s, Timothy Leary adapted it as a manual for navigating psychedelic trips, equating the Bardo to the dissolution of the ego under LSD. - Robert Thurman's Contribution: The American Buddhist scholar Robert Thurman translated the text in 1994, fundamentally shifting its perception. Thurman stripped away the Western theosophical baggage and restored its authentic Tibetan philosophical context. He emphasised that the text is not an esoteric relic but an advanced "science of consciousness." Thurman's accessible yet rigorously academic approach brought the text into mainstream spiritual and philosophical discourse, highlighting its practical applications for living a mindful life. ### Modern Relevance: Anthropology, Psychology, and End-of-Life Care Today, the Bardo Thodol resonates far beyond Buddhist studies. - Psychology and Consciousness Studies: It challenges the materialistic view of the mind. By treating consciousness as a continuum rather than a byproduct of the brain, it offers a framework for studying Near-Death Experiences (NDEs), which frequently share the text's descriptions of moving through a void toward a brilliant light. - Palliative Care: In modern medicine, the death-positive movement and hospice care workers draw heavily from the book's core premise: that the dying process requires a calm, supportive, and spiritually lucid environment. - The Art of Living: Ultimately, the Bardo Thodol is a book for the living. The "intermediate states" do not just happen at death; they happen every time we fall asleep, every time a relationship ends, and in every gap between our thoughts. By training the mind through meditation to remain present during the "mini-deaths" of daily life, we prepare ourselves for the final transition. ### Conclusion The Tibetan Book of the Dead is a masterpiece of spiritual technology. It maps the terrifying, beautiful, and awe-inspiring landscape of the human mind, insisting that our ultimate nature is luminous and free. By intertwining the psychological, the cultural, and the philosophical, it teaches us that to die well, we must first learn how to live with radical, unblinking awareness. SOURCE: [https://ia902302.us.archive.org/17/items/soi-book-collection-4/The-Tibetan-Book-of-the-Dead.pdf](https://ia902302.us.archive.org/17/items/soi-book-collection-4/The-Tibetan-Book-of-the-Dead.pdf) ``` “The after-death state is very much like a dream state, and its dreams are the children of the mentality of the dreamer” ― Padmasambhava ``` https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2CogVMp5_E

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Semana 3 de 2026: Herramientas para economías circulares con Bitcoin

Hemos finalizado el primer tomo de nuestra guía administrativa y avanzamos con tableros y mapas sobre Nostr para impulsar modelos de economía circular con Bitcoin en esta región.

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Staying with the Trouble; a Critique

A critique of Donna J. Haraway: *Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene* (2016). > Behind materialism in all its forms lies the figure of the Great Mother, as the economy, as the welfare state ... we are ... utterly at her mercy, for the environment is uncaring and merciless; it devours and destroys (Rupert Sheldrake: *The Rebirth of Nature: The Greening of Science and God).* For Haraway, the bleakness of Paul Crutzen's Anthropocene calls for a new *cene*, a new catchword to assist in the telling of stories (speculative fabulations). In a act of plagiarism, Haraway snatches H. P. Lovecraft's tentacular monster-god (etymologically chtonic), coining the Chthulucene, a new era outside of linear time, beyond hope, beyond reason, post-truth. The genderqueer dweller of the Chthulucene rubs elbows with the critters of the compost heap (bugs, fungi, microbes) but unlike those critters, remains childless in order to save the planet. These are the critters, blind termites patiently nibbling at the very foundations of Western culture. > Make Kin, Not Babies. In what I would call, following Neumann, an act of *uroboric incest,* Haraway wishes for the archetypal Hero to be devoured by the Dragon, who is the Great Mother (Erich Neumann: *The Origins and History of Consciousness).* Unwittingly perhaps, she invokes the authoritarianism of the hive mind, where the collective triumphs over the individual, night over day, matter over mind. Granted, a new order will not result from technofixes but, apparently, the repetition *ad nauseam* of catchwords, perhaps to lull the masses into surrender of I-ness, vulnerable yet again to the surreptitiously implemented technofixes of some anonymous Authority. Towards a green utopia with or without human critters, Haraway asks: > Who lives and who dies, and how, in this kinship rather than that one? Fine, let's go with the Chthulucene for now, the latest in the taxonomy of post-modern or Romantic worldings. Western man has already largely surrendered his adolescent arrogance anyway, anticipating a post-imperialist, multi-polar political world order. Besides, the hegemony of mechanistic, scientific materialism is done with. Western man is trying to re-integrate the levels of his being, the physical and the spiritual, the archaic and the contemporary. I can feel aligned with Haraway in passages likes this one: > The unfinished Chthulucene must collect up the trash of the Anthropocene ... and chipping and shredding and layering like a mad gardener, make a much hotter compost pile for still possible pasts, presents, and futures. But I want to make amendments. First, the Hero can not be subdued for good. It is his task to slay the dragon of preconscious existence, separating earth from sky: the differentiation of subject and object. It is the part in the cosmic drama delegated to humanity, uniquely among critters. If humanity is to persist in the ages to come, even or especially when situated in sympoietic multispecies relationalities, (self-)awareness will have to be strengthened and affirmed. Second, let the female reproductive instinct be part of the Chthulucene with a vengeance. Feminism without misanthropy and misandry. Venerate the Great Mother in her life-affirming aspect. Let's celebrate genealogy and ethnicity, our neck of the woods on the many-branched tree of life. #bookstr #haraway #postmodernism #anthropocene #feminism #philosophy #artstr --- ![image](https://image.nostr.build/44871354c8b414d093c97e424f8449cc951c293b3356e3b37e4629b9abb1a49d.jpg) *Donna Haraway is Distinguished Professor Emerita in the History of Consciousness Department at the University of California, Santa Cruz.*

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Α 2025-10-29 Ω The Muted Cry of the Earth

Rachel Carson was not a professional revolutionary. She was a marine biologist with the patience of one who observes the tides and the precision of a government cataloger of organisms. But when she decided to raise her voice, the impact was enough to shake the system. Her weapon was not a political manifesto, nor a shouted protest. It was a book, Silent Spring, which in 1962 tore away the veil of blind progress, revealing how the indiscriminate use of pesticides like DDT was poisoning the world . She did not write from instinct, but from a lucid and painful reckoning. She had seen the scientific data: DDT, a heroic exterminator of mosquitoes during the war, had become a dark threat. It traveled through food chains, accumulated in the fat tissues of animals, killed birds, and contaminated water . Her pen transformed those technical truths into a universal story. Describing a spring without the songs of swallows was not a metaphor: it was the projection of a future already begun . The backlash was violent. The chemical industry painted her as a hysterical, single woman obsessed with little animals. They called her a communist, an enemy of progress. They tried to reduce her work to the sentimentalism of a nature lover . But Carson had not merely mourned dead robins. She had built her case with the cement of science: dozens of studies, interviews with experts, meticulous documentation . Hers was not an attack on chemistry, but on ignorance. On the recklessness of putting powerful poisons into unaware hands . There was in her a deep, almost physical tension between the rationality of the scientist and the awareness that the world was a web of connected lives. In Silent Spring, she did not call for a ban on all pesticides. She called for caution, research into alternatives, respect for that fragile balance in which humans are also a thread, not the master . Her message was clear: you cannot spray poison upon the world and believe it will remain confined where you placed it. Her battle was also a race against time. As she wrote, breast cancer consumed her body. She endured chemo and radiation but kept her illness hidden, knowing her opponents would use it to question her lucidity . She died in 1964, two years after publication, without seeing the ripest fruit of her labor: the creation of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and the ban on DDT . Rachel Carson did not love grandiose heroics. She was a private woman who found comfort in letters to a dear friend and walks along the Maine coast. Yet, with her scientific stubbornness and poetic prose, she accomplished more than an investigation: she awakened a conscience. Heeding not an ideology, but an evidence: the earth is not a resource to be exploited, but a home of which we are a part. And when the home shakes, the tremor reaches us all. — ✦ — 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #bitcoin #nostr #zap #lightning #grownostr #askNostr #plebchain #art #podcasts #dev #filmstr #bookstr #carnivore #touchgrass #zaps #btc #coffeechain #health #music #zapathon

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The scream and the void.

This is the hallmark of our times. An endless cacophony, an incessant buzz that fills the ears but does not touch the soul. We open our jaws, we emit sounds, we mistake them for dialogue. But it is just background noise, the hiss of a tape that has come loose. The word, emptied of its flesh, has become a shell rolling through digital streets, a sterile husk. True communication is not an emission, it is a reception. It is an act of courage that begins with closing the mouth and opening the soul's ears. Before reaching out to the other, one must have found one's own centre, having listened to one's inner breath. Today we throw messages like stones, to wound, to appear, to win an imaginary dispute. It is the logic of the keyboard gladiator, not the truth-seeker. Harmony is not a drawing-room concept. It is a visceral condition, an alignment of one's inner frequencies. If one is in a storm, words can only be splinters of wood carried by the gust. They serve to build fences, not to tear them down. One speaks to discharge toxins, to transfer the burden of one's confusion onto a scapegoat. It is a dead end. Authentic communication is a resonance. It is when two tuning forks, attuned to the same note, begin to vibrate in unison without needing to clash. It is not about convincing, about bending the other to one's will. It is about expressing one's own truth, naked and raw, but without making it a cudgel. Words are chisels: they can carve beauty or inflict wounds. But their strength is not in the blade, it is in the hand that guides it. A trembling, angry hand will only cause damage. Everything stems from a quality of being. From a presence to oneself that is the root of every encounter. It is listening, which is not docile passivity, but vigilant waiting. It is gentleness, which is not weakness, but tamed power. It is enthusiasm, that inner fire that gives warmth to syllables. It is simplicity, the antidote to contorted rhetoric. The restarting point is here, in this desert of silence we are afraid to inhabit. In the courage to fall silent, to turn off the spotlights and look into the darkness of one's own room. It is there that the connection with the essential is found. Silence is not absence. It is the control room. It is from there that the current that ignites the true words emanates. 〰️ 🤍 〰️ 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #bitcoin #nostr #zap #lightning #grownostr #askNostr #plebchain #art #podcasts #dev #filmstr #bookstr #carnivore #touchgrass #zaps #btc #coffeechain #health #music #zapathon

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The Deafening Silence

We are connected. Always. In a dense network of electrical impulses and luminous screens, we build bridges to the other side of the world. And yet, in this endless swarming of contacts, an ancient and familiar void makes room for itself. It is the paradox that is not named: hyper-communication that generates a new loneliness, sharper and more subtle than that of those who are physically alone. The question is no longer whether we are in a relationship, but what the quality of that relationship is. Our gestures, once physical and immediate, have migrated to a realm of symbols. A red heart, a thumbs-up, a crying face. These are the new sacraments of sociality, conventional signs that replace the hug, the pat on the shoulder, the complexity of a real gaze. Language itself adapts, contorts, loses thickness to become faster, more efficient, poorer. We believe we are speaking to everyone, and instead we end up speaking to an algorithm, to an interface that sends back a distilled and commercial image of ourselves. The experience of contact, its carnality, is translated into a code. And in this translation, something essential is lost forever. We delude ourselves into being understood, but the understanding we obtain is merely a reflection of our desires, an echo amplified by the echo chambers we lock ourselves into. Technology, although a neutral tool, ends up indulging our deepest fears: the fear of rejection, of judgment, of direct and unpredictable confrontation with the otherness of the other. We therefore prefer the silent and controllable companionship of the screen. It is an escape from the complexity of presence, an attempt to domesticate the encounter, to render it harmless. But an encounter without risk is an encounter without life, it is a body without nerves, without blood. We must stop. We must dare to interrupt the flow. Unplugging is not an act of rejecting modernity; it is a necessary gesture to rediscover the meaning of who we are. It is in silence that the desire for a true encounter is rekindled. It is in the absence of notifications that we rediscover the sound of our own inner voice and the call of the other's voice, unmediated, unfiltered. The void we fear is actually the condition for authentic fullness. Only those who have the courage to inhabit this void, to feel its weight fully, can then open themselves to a relationship that is not a simple exchange of information, but a sharing of existences. The future of connection does not lie in increasing the number of links, but in their depth. It lies in recovering the slowness of a gesture, the patience of listening, the vulnerability of an emotion expressed not with an icon, but with a trembling voice or a hand placed on a shoulder. It is a challenge that concerns us all, as individuals and as a community. We must ask ourselves if we want to be a forest of trees that only brush against each other with their highest branches, or a common root that, in the darkness of the earth, knows it is one. The choice is between a din of monologues and a dialogue made also of understanding silences. Between a surface-level existence and one of substance. True connection, in the end, does not need to be shown. It is felt. It resonates. — ✦ — 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #plebchain #zap #zapathon #value4value #lightning #stackingsats #bitcoin #nostr #pleblife #freenostr #freespeech #decentralization #bookstr #musicstr #artstr #photostr #tunestr #filmstr #foodstr #coffeechain #proofofwork #proofofwalk #nostrsearch #grownostr

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The Army of Digital Ghosts: The Cancer of Fake Followers Plaguing Nostr

The tearing down of the totems of digital centralism has given birth to a monster, perhaps even more insidious than its predecessors. We had deluded ourselves that once the gilded cages of Zuckerberg and his like were demolished, the landscape would be a green and clean meadow. Instead, the no-man's-land of the Nostr protocol, hailed as the beacon of online freedom, has become populated by a disturbing horde of specters. Fake profiles, bots programmed to wink, followers inflated like rotting carcasses. A disgusting plague that calls into question the very principle of authenticity, draining every interaction of meaning. The burning question remains: in this decentralized bazaar of identity, who or what is still real? The betrayed promise. The Nostr protocol was born from a pure ideology: no central servers, no corporations, no algorithms deciding what is worthy of being seen. It is the crypto-anarchist utopia made protocol. And yet, this very radical architecture, this refusal of any higher authority, has proven to be its Achilles' heel. While on a traditional platform an army of moderators, however zealous and annoying, at least attempts to clean the stables, here there is no single number to call to complain. There is no night porter. The beacon of freedom inevitably also illuminates the creatures of the night. Anyone, with a handful of code, can forge an army of automata, impersonate hundreds of users, pollute the flow of conversation. The absence of a guarantor, celebrated as a liberation, becomes the flyer for the impunity of forgers. The numerical obsession, the new sterile god. And so, we find ourselves groping in a Kafkaesque nightmare. The marketplace of ideas, which was supposed to be Nostr's dream, has become a stock exchange where ghost followers are traded. The "Zap," that financial gesture of appreciation meant to be the beating heart of a value-based economy, risks ending up in the digital pockets of bots programmed to seem interesting. What value does consensus have if it is manufactured? What price does a 'like' have if it is issued by a machine? We cling to the numbers, to the count of "real" users, like shipwrecked survivors to a wreck. But perhaps the question is misplaced. Perhaps asking "how many real users are there" is like asking how many grains of sand on a beach are authentic. The problem is not the number, but the inability to distinguish, the corrosion of trust that this background noise causes. It is the fog that makes every face a potential threat. The paradox of the empty square. The disillusionment is palpable, a bitter vibration running through the keyboard. One senses the feeling of having traded a visible jailer for a thousand invisible tormentors. Decentralization, rather than a party among peers, takes on the contours of a masked ball where no one knows who is hiding behind their own mask, let alone behind the masks of others. Authenticity, the very humanity of conversation, becomes the first victim. And what if absolute freedom revealed itself to be merely the freedom to be deceived? What if the price for escaping centralized control was the most obscure and inscrutable anarchy? Perhaps, in our flight from the prisons of Silicon Valley, we have landed straight in a digital swamp, where the only ones thriving are the ghosts and their traffickers. — ✦ — 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #plebchain #zap #zapathon #value4value #lightning #stackingsats #bitcoin #nostr #pleblife #freenostr #freespeech #decentralization #bookstr #musicstr #artstr #photostr #tunestr #filmstr #foodstr #coffeechain #proofofwork #proofofwalk #nostrsearch #grownostr

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The Engineering of Consent: How the Impossible is Manufactured

Overton window

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The Digital Abyss: The Steep Bill for the Virtual Euro the ECB Doesn't Want to Pay

A chilling shiver, a barely perceptible vibration snaking through the cold corridors of financial power. Frankfurt speaks, its voice a reassuring hum, a hypnotic mantra promising a future smooth as a screen. The digital euro, they say, will not be a trauma. Two studies, clean numbers, reassuring projections. All under control. But who, with an ounce of sense left, still trusts the illusionists of finance? There's a smell of burning. An acrid odor of incomplete truth, of risks hidden under a rug of convenient statistics. It's not a promise, it's a spell. And as in any self-respecting magic trick, the substance vanishes into thin air, leaving only the illusion. Digging beneath the polished surface of press releases is a nauseating exercise. The ECB, with the arrogance of those who believe they can dictate reality with a spreadsheet, announces that the bill for the banks will be light, a trifle between 4 and 5.77 billion. A figure that sounds almost reasonable, compared to the 18 billion screamed by the scarecrows. But reasonableness is the first casualty when the technocrat gets to work. These numbers, waved like flags of victory, are hollow. They admit, with a nonchalance that makes the skin crawl, that they omitted the potential benefits for the banks from their calculation. It's like estimating the cost of a car without considering you can actually drive it. A methodological madness, a con artist's trick. The sensation is of being taken for a ride, of being considered a mass of imbeciles incapable of understanding the deceit. The masterstroke, however, is another. A logical artifice bordering on malignant genius. The banks in the Eurozone are thousands, each with its own guts, its structure, its IT demons. Yet, the ECB decrees that the implementations will not be thousands, but only a few hundred. Why? Ah, synergies! Centralization! As if the small provincial banks, with their rugged faces and tight budgets, could magically merge into a single, highly efficient digital blob. It's a fantasy, a hallucination of a Soviet planner. It ignores the hassles, the slowness, the idiosyncrasies of the real world. It presumes everyone will move in unison, like an army of robots. And then they have the nerve to call "excessive" the estimates of those who, like PwC, have perhaps brushed against that real world. The question arises spontaneously, burning: so, who is lying? Who is trying to placate public opinion with a fairy tale with a happy ending? The suspicion is that the goal is not transparency, but staging. The product must be pushed through at any cost, even at the cost of twisting reality until it bleeds. And then comes the stability chapter, the tragic joke. The magic limit: three thousand euros per person. A figure that is supposed to be the bulwark against panic, the dam that holds back the ocean. In normal times, they say, the impact will be zero. But life is not "normal times." Life is crisis, it is panic, it is the unexpected exploding in your face. And in those moments, that limit is not a rock, it's a wisp of smoke. The ECB itself has played with different limits, implicitly admitting that this number is written on sand. And when the wind of crisis blows, that number will fly away. Their own documents, in a passage that seems buried so as not to be read, confess that in a "very hypothetical" crisis – a euphemism that sends shivers – thirteen banks could be gutted, nine could sink. Nine. It's not a statistic, it's nine funerals. Just one, small, bank collapsing is enough to trigger an earthquake. Trust is crystal, not a steel bolt. But the real, subtle, murderous danger is another. Speed. Digital cash is not like going to the counter, queuing, withdrawing banknotes. It's a click. A touch on the screen. A nervous impulse. In a nanosecond, fear turns into a capital flight. That physical slowness, that sweat that restrains mass hysteria, disappears. And what are we left with? A hyper-fast system built for consumption, placed in the hands of human fear. The ECB, obsessed with the quantity of funds, completely ignores the speed of their movement. It's like worrying about the weight of a bullet and not its velocity. The impact is devastating nonetheless. In the end, what remains is not reassurance. It's a shiver. An alarm vibration that starts from the fingers gripping the smartphone and goes straight to the stomach. The words from Frankfurt do not soothe the anxiety, they feed it. Because beneath that blanket of numbers and "it's all fine," you can hear the rumble of a tsunami. And the feeling, strong, distressing, is that when it breaks, those who set the table won't be the ones paying the steepest bill. — ✦ — 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #bitcoin #nostr #zap #lightning #grownostr #askNostr #plebchain #art #podcasts #dev #filmstr #bookstr #carnivore #touchgrass #zaps #btc #coffeechain #health #music #zapathon

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The Gladiator's Return: Thirty Years Later, Lancia Throws Itself Back into the Fray

This is not a fairy tale. We will not begin with "once upon a time". It is rather the chronicle of an awakening, slow, obstinate, that tastes of tarmac and burnt oil. For over three decades, the Lancia name in the rally world has been a ghost, an echo of applause in a hall now empty. Now, in 2026, the ghost becomes flesh and steel. Lancia returns to where its legend was forged and where, perhaps, it can once again warm itself by the fire of competition. The chosen stage could only be the most theatrical, the most cruel: the Rally of Monte Carlo, between the 22nd and 25th of January. Roads that are a trap of ice and asphalt, curves that are a final judgement. There, the new Ypsilon Rally2 HF Integrale will enter the arena in the WRC2 category, not as a princess, but as a gladiator who has forgotten nothing of her ferocity. This is not a timid appearance. It is a deployment of forces. The brand's motorsport range reveals itself with the precision of a military plan: the Ypsilon HF Racing, the Rally4 HF, and finally the Rally2 HF Integrale, which is not a simple car. It is a bridge thrown over an abyss of thirty years. An artefact that claims to stitch together the glory of yesterday, made of dust and world titles, with a future that has yet to prove it is not a mirage. It is the symbol of a continuity that dares, that challenges time and oblivion. From the CEO's words, a torrent of pride and expectations: "With pride we can announce that Lancia will return to the WRC, where it wrote some of the most legendary pages of its sporting history". His words do not ask for permission, they are a statement. "It is a natural return for the most winning brand ever in rallying, which looks to the future with the same passion and determination that made it a world icon". It is a gentle declaration of war, a manifesto. And then the sign-off, sharp, an appointment without the possibility of a reply: "We'll see you in January, in Monte Carlo, for the first race of the 2026 World Championship". There are no icy shivers here. There is the tension of a bow that has been drawn back for an eternity and is about to loose the arrow. There is the stifled roar of an engine that never stopped dreaming. Monte Carlo will not be a simple beginning. It will be an examination of conscience. A return home, to a home where the furniture has been moved and the rivals have become more fierce. The wait is over. Now it's time to get dirty with mud, once again. 〰️ 🤍 〰️ 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #bitcoin #nostr #zap #lightning #grownostr #askNostr #plebchain #art #podcasts #dev #filmstr #bookstr #carnivore #touchgrass #zaps #btc #coffeechain #health #music #zapathon #motors

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The Outrage of the Machine: The Madness that Wants to Duplicate the Soul

This is not a matter of chips or silicon. It is a war of spirit. An assault conducted not with weapons, but with an idea, a single one, so simple as to be diabolical: that man, in his deepest essence, is nothing but a mechanism. A complex clock. And that therefore, with the right gears, a twin clock can be built. This is the founding lie of our era, the poison dripped onto us like acid rain. Artificial intelligence? A colossal sham. They have convinced us that intelligence is that arid calculation, that logical gymnastics which solves problems, wins at chess, digests mountains of data. And certainly, in this, machines surpass us. But it is like boasting of having built a lamp more powerful than the sun. The quantity of light is confused with its quality, its origin, its mystery. There exists another faculty, higher, more noble. A fire fed not by electrons but by intuition. Our ancestors, those whose brains were not yet clouded by the smoke of machines, called it intellect. It is not reasoning. It is a flash, an immediate taste of truth. It is that lightning strike which grasps the beautiful, the true, the just, without passing through the sieve of logic. One sees the principle as one sees the sun; one savors it like a ripe fruit. It is an act of knowledge that is also an act of love. And this, believe me, you will never replicate with an algorithm. There is no code that can contain the ecstasy of a mystic or the creative fury of a poet. You may simulate the form, never the substance. The disaster began when we forgot this duality of man. We amputated the best part of ourselves, declaring that only the rational ape that calculates and schematizes exists. And once man was reduced to a flesh-and-blood automaton, the idea of building a metal automaton became not only possible but inevitable. We opened the cage to transhumanism because we first locked our soul in a laboratory. We believed the fable of the body-machine, and now here we are dreaming of the upgrade, the hybrid, digital immortality. It is the logical conclusion of a madness that denies everything that is superior, everything that cannot be measured, weighed, sold. Fighting this drift with laws, with politics, is like trying to stop an avalanche with a petty decree. It is a battle won or lost in the minds of the people, in the heart of civilization. We must return to shouting, with the strength of desperation, that man is not his machine. That within him dwells a principle from on high, a heritage of light that no artificial intelligence will ever possess. It is a question of pride. Of refusing the outrage of being duplicated by a gadget. The allure of the synthetic is powerful, it is the same one the serpent offered: you will be like gods. But it is a promise of charlatans. The only way out is a radical return, a recovery of the integral idea of man, unique, unrepeatable, sacred. Before it is too late. — ✦ — 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #bitcoin #nostr #zap #lightning #grownostr #askNostr #plebchain #art #podcasts #dev #filmstr #bookstr #carnivore #touchgrass #zaps #btc #coffeechain #health #music #zapathon

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The Garden and the Circus: Surviving Digital Anarchy

This is not a crisis. It is not a collapse. It is a grand and terrible spectacle, this digital square they call Nostr. A sovereign-less vanity fair, a stage where the mask of anonymity does not hide the face, but reveals it in its bare, often wretched, essence. You dive in and are swept away by a chaotic clamor, a buzz that does not elevate, that stuns. Shouters, charlatans, gold diggers. It is the worst of the common man, multiplied by the power of lightning and stripped of any filter. This bedlam is not a failure of the project. It is its most authentic and ruthless success. It is a return to the horde, to human nature before civilization attempted, often in vain, to bridle it. The average user is not a rebel. He is a creature of habit. A battery-farmed animal, raised in the artificial ludes of traditional social media, where every like is a tiny dose of sugar and every interaction is a conditioned reflex. He seeks here what he already knows: immediate validation, quick gain, the reflection of his own image in a million concave mirrors. He has developed no antibodies, he lacks the visceral skepticism required to navigate these free and infested waters. Your nausea, the disgust that rises from your guts as you scroll through this Babel, is not a symptom of weakness. It is a sign of health. It is proof that your intellectual immune system is still vigilant. You are set apart from the mass because you reject the circus, because you perceive the background noise not as a soundtrack, but as acoustic pollution for the soul. Your frustration is the privilege, and the burden, of those who can still see the starry sky beyond the fumes of the market stalls. But the mistake, the tragic, useless mistake, is to believe you must redeem the entire square. That you must convert the shouters, that you must purify the Augean stables. It is the labor of Sisyphus, a fight against the tide with a spoon. Strength does not lie in frontal opposition, in that swimming against the current which only consumes your vital energy. The true revolution is silent, almost botanical. It is the gesture of one who, turning his back on the tumultuous river of stupidity, decides to water his own small, tiny plot of land. Your garden. Your corner of the net. Build there. Clear the soil, plant seeds of authentic conversations, patiently cultivate genuine relationships. Protect it with a fence of discretion. The daily watering, the assiduous care, are acts of a resistance more powerful than any manifesto or invective. From that garden, in time, no light may radiate to save the world. But that is not the point. That garden will save you. And in an age of digital din, saving your own capacity to think, to feel, to connect in depth, is the only victory that truly matters. Stop fighting the chaos. Become a gardener. 〰️ 🤍 〰️ 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #bitcoin #nostr #zap #lightning #grownostr #askNostr #plebchain #art #podcasts #dev #filmstr #bookstr #carnivore #touchgrass #zaps #btc #coffeechain #health #music #zapathon

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The Merchant's Antidote

They offer you the cure for the illness they have meticulously inoculated in you. They skillfully construct your malaise, then, with a complacent smile, hand you the remedy for a fee. You are free to complain, indeed, you are encouraged to do so; it is a sterile lament, a buzz lost in the wind, while the real causes of your unease are carefully preserved and, in fact, multiplied. The game is this: to delude you into thinking the fight consists of climbing the rankings in their tournament, of accumulating points in their system. You fail to understand that the real, the only battle, is the one to dismantle the gaming table itself. The choice so magnanimously granted to you is a deception of diabolical perfection. It is the fiction of diversity in a world of enforced uniformity. You can choose the color of your cell walls, the shape of the lock that restrains you. You purchase your rebellion at the supermarket of ideas, pre-packaged, sterilized, stripped of all subversive potential. It is a rebellion that does not contaminate, that does not shake the foundations. It is a style accessory, not a weapon of liberation. This is not a flaw of the system. It is the system itself in its splendid, cynical operation. How can you hope to eradicate an evil using the very tools that generated and continue to feed that evil? They spur you to think unconventionally, to be a rebel, an outlier. Provided, however, that this thought translates into a purchase, a click, a consumption that falls within their economic perimeter. Your protest has become a product with a price tag, your cry for freedom a commodity with its barcode. Did you truly choose, in that decisive moment, or did you simply ratify the only option placed before you? Opposition is not only permitted, it is often sponsored, funded, made trendy. Up until the exact moment it begins to eat into profits, to question the very mechanism of accumulation. Until it stops being a music genre or a clothing line and becomes a concrete threat to the established order. Authentic change, the kind that digs deep furrows, does not reside in selecting option A or option B. The truly revolutionary act is the disdainful refusal to recognize the very validity of the alphabet imposed upon you. They are not solving the world's problems. They are, with cold calculation, monetizing your desperation, packaging your anxiety and selling it back to you as hope. Their most subtle trap, the most perfect one, is called tolerance. They give you the impression of being heard, understood, welcomed. It is a suffocating embrace, a understanding that neutralizes. You believe you have a voice, and meanwhile that voice is measured, analyzed, and transformed into consumption data. The system, in truth, does not fear your voice. Your voice is background noise, confirmation of its vitality. What the system fears, truly, is your silence. The absorbed and impenetrable silence of when you stop participating in its noise, of when you withdraw from its logic, of when you refuse to drink, both the poison and the antidote, from its very well. 〰️ 🤍 〰️ 🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅 #plebchain #zap #zapathon #value4value #lightning #stackingsats #bitcoin #nostr #pleblife #freenostr #freespeech #decentralization #bookstr #musicstr #artstr #photostr #tunestr #filmstr #foodstr #coffeechain #proofofwork #proofofwalk #nostrsearch #grownostr

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The Bullshit Jobs of Modern Society [2025]

A Bitcoiner's commentary on what David Graeber gets right, and wrong, in his 2018 novel titled "Bullshit Jobs". Inspired by Jeff Booth, Austrian economics, and the Cypherpunk ethos that brought Bitcoin to life.

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Null in void 0.07

Emilien stepped into the space motel's bar. The area was dimly lit and the music was unbearably loud. At least all the tables and sunken lounges each had their own lights and sound dampers. He stepped up to a table and pushed down on the receptor to reduce volume. He could not think with the noise. He looked around for Macy and inconspicuously acquainted himself with the current patrons in the establishment. He pulled his hoody further forward when he noticed the android in a wheel chair. "Not my type of company." He thought to himself. In the centre of the room a couple was having a spectacular time, an empty bottle on the table, they were specimens of myth. The guys muscles were chiselled, with tight fabric clinging to his body specifically to display every contour of his physique. His female counterpart wore loose material with translucent green tattoo's running up her body like pin stripes shining through the thin cloth hinting at a perfectly balanced pose and feminine silhouette underneath. Emilien swiped on the tables interface to call for the proprietor. He folded his arms and leaned onto the table tilting his head down slightly to keep shadow on his face. Macy entered the room through the kitchen swivel door. She was holding an empty tray and a serviette draped over her arm. She walked straight over to Emilien's table. "Good rotation sir. Welcome to Macy's. Are you a regular customer or is it your first visit to my fine establishment?" She seemed concerned and worried. The corners of Emiliens lips curved up a little. Keeping his head down teasingly. "Sir? Do we have an existing open channel?" He ignored her. "Sir, If you don't have liquidity I have no services to offer that you cannot get off your own ship." Emilien looked up with a gleam in his eye. Macie's posture relaxed with a sigh of relief. "Emile, you fuck. You freaked me out." "I'm sorry, I could not help myself." He waved a halfhearted greeting, slightly laughing. "You know I have some new rules around for you nano augmented types." His aversion to the word rules was evident only to himself. "Like what?" Macy felt apologetically obliged to explain the nature of her circumstances. "I had diplomats from the outer void regions come for a private meeting. Financial in nature. A spacer customer arrived blocks before them, I did not suspect him of anything criminal." She put the tray down and gripped the table with both hands shifting her weight. "His routine for meals were already established, he managed to spy on them through my privacy protocols and hacked their clients. He participated as a ghost during most of their stay and dealings." Emilien whistled. "That's rough, how did you handle it." "I did not do anything." Her dreads shook as she moved her head in animated frustration. "No one knew until they all had been gone for blocks. My reputation took a serious knock. They made a claim against me, I was accused of being complicit. Emilien glanced back over his shoulder when he noticed the android cart himself around his table. "Warren helped me and found all the dirty code and sequestered it. We have all the data and footage, it proves beyond a doubt that I was not involved. Thank god for the core otherwise my whole station might have been destroyed by now." Emile gave a sly look. "How do you know it was not me who stole the data?" She locked eyes with him. "You still have the same face as before bro and I know you won't fuck with me. I'll force close our channel." She joked with serious tone nudging him with her fist playfully. She was generally perceived as strict and militant because of her Shiv citizenship. Shiv military training and service was compulsory, all respected the Shiv in their traditions, their ways were isolationist and exclusionary in nature. Emilien has seen her use military style jujitsu-boxing to neutralise and boot out unruly customers. The Juel woman noticed the out of character friendly gesture Macy made. The unexpected interaction drew her attention from across the room. "So, what is this rule of yours." Macy seemed reluctant to say. "I'm sorry bud. You'll have to swallow a slipper pill every 576 blocks while you are on this station." His shoulders sagged and could not help but bounce his leg on the rail under the table. "Really?!" "Yes, really. I have to retain my customers trust and neutralising all augmented customers body gadgets was the unanimous way to go." Emilien seemed pissed. "Your customers might not know that I'm augmented. And what if I don't plan on staying that long. I just want to see Warren then I'll be off." Macy shook her head. "Warren is passed out in his ship and will probably wake up with a very bad hangover. He partied with the Jeul pair and their entourage for most of this rotation, you know how he gets." Macy waved her hand towards the couple who seemed to be looking directly at Emilien. He looked straight back at them and swiped the interface's privacy command dropping a vision distortion field around his table. Encapsulating himself and Macy. "I treat everyone the same, no compromise." Emile looked at her in a moment of rumination. "Let's get it over with." Macy removed a container from her moonbag after opening, holding it towards Emilien he took the purple capsule and swallowed it without a drink and opened his mouth wide moving his tongue around to show Macy that he did indeed swallow the prophylactic. "And what about robo-mech boy back there? He cannot eat slipper pills." Emilien sounded annoyed and regretful." Macy gave him a stern look tilting her head in annoyance. "Why do think he's in a wheelchair, you know I can't talk about my customers with my customers? Besides from the obvious." Emilien did not say anything. Macy sighed. "What can I get you sir?" "I'll just have a beer." Macy stepped out through the distortion field and became a messy disfigured indistinguishable form. Emilien pushed the music's volume up and waited for the inevitable. He sensed the actuators in his shoulders, elbows and wrists disable in sequence down his arms. His spines bit rate slowed to a crawl and the lack of connectivity to his neck port was becoming noticeable. His legs went numb instantly. "Now I am nothing more than a pathetic land crawler." He felt weak and vulnerable in his natural form. His mental state bordered on the fringes of stable and paranoid, fearful thoughts threatening to manifest in his mind. He saw a figure approach. He assumed it was his drink. The slender glowing tattooed leg of the Jeul woman pierced the veil. A bright green line that suddenly dims where her skirt begins. She stepped through the curtain with a friendly nonchalant expression. "Mind if make your acquaintance mon ami?" Emilien dropped the barrier and lowered the volume making sure that he was back on visual record of Macy's archive. "Not really, thanks, I'm good." Macy returned to place a cold beer on the table. The interface flashed a price in femto-sat and Emilien tapped his ring on it shifting 11 fSAT from a mini holographic Bob to very happy little Alice. The animation morphed into a small firework display and died. "Back to work now." Emilien grinned at Macy thankfully and took a sip. "Me and my brother we are celebrating our seventh birth block anniversary." He looked around sarcastically. "You chose a display of death above the resorts on Juel to celebrate your seventh birth block?" She stiffened her glittery lips and raised her eyebrows thoughtfully and took a seat without invitation. "It is more of a tour than a celebration, I am Maurelle Giovanni and my brother is called Lionel also Giovanni obviously. He is my twin baby brother." Emilien looked over at the guy who seemed to be occupied playing a mini game on their tables interface. She tilted her head into his line of sight forcing him to look at her. "Who are you?" "None of your concern really." She did not accept the short stated answer. "No one comes alone all the way to a dead end system just to drink a cheap beer. I am guessing you are a treasure hunter, no. Looking for artefacts of the ancient world, yes?" Emilien had assessed her body language and concluded that her whimsical imagination was one he could easily manipulate. He had enough information to realise that he was faced with a spoiled individual whose sole interest in him was simple curiosity, motivated by boredom and she had a fascination of the mysterious. She seemed like prey but his hunting instincts felt dead inside his disarmed body. His respect for and dependence on Macy also inhibited his urge to exploit it. He shifted his attitude and personality slightly, just enough to not be overbearing. "You make very good estimations, you are wrong but not far off. My name is Scott. And yes I am fascinated, not by the planet and it's relics but by the the secrets of these gates." Her eyes gleamed with amusement and intrigue. "You like secrets, huh? You must meet Warren. He knows more than the esteemed professors about the gates and their technology." Emilien nodded in agreement. "You said you are Giovanni. Like the Giovanni?" She seemed excited at the prospect of making a new friend and swiped the interface. "Hold this thought, I am going to get myself another drink you are good? No. Food maybe?" "I am good, no wait, another beer." He tipped the bottle toward her in salutation. She stood up taking his bottle with her to the bar. He looked back and was immediately aware that he did not notice that the android wheel himself out and into the conduit. He would have liked to see which of the two entrances of the tube he used to go to his ship. His feeling sorry for and pitying himself put him in a position where he let slip an opportunity to understand and predict the circumstances of his current tactical situation. Never at ease, always being prepared. He felt spite. The girl returned with a beer and a half full whiskey glass, no ice. She reclaimed her seat looking at him. "I am a direct descendant of the patriarch Maurice Giovanni, one of the four primary key holders of our people. There is nothing special about me really, ten..." Emilien cut her off in gentle tone. "Ten percent of the Juel population are descendants of the four patriarchs." Emilien finished her sentence for her. "You are an interesting man Monsieur Scott. What else do you know about me?" Emilien leaned towards her. Noticing her brother yawning across the room. "I know that you are bourgeois and I know that you receive a cyclical allowance from your great, great... How many generations?" "I am removed 133 generations from my Patriarch. He is a very good, doting grandfather. We all adore him. We are around 750 million siblings you know. Those who are from aristocracy have fewer children than the proles. We are so few so that our wealth is not diluted too much." She smiled reminiscently dragging her finger on the edge of the glass. Her brother seemed to stretch himself out he stood up and walked over. Entering the sound damper he acknowledged Emilien's presence with a curt nod. "Maurelle, I am going to sleep." He said to her. She waved at him dismissively. "Have a good dream frere." He exited the room through the right tubes door which made sense as their ship was more closely attached to it on that side of the circular docking ring. Predictable and honest Emilien thought to himself. Macy popped her head through the kitchens serving window. "Lights out and shutdown in 2 blocks. Just a friendly notice." The couple acknowledged the warning from Macy with raised glass and bottle. Emilien turned his attention back to the lady. "How do you manage to retain wealth in such a large family?" He pretended to be ignorant of the finery and detail of Juel culture. "We have closed loop channels controlled and balanced by the patriarchs. But our money is good as core stone. Anywhere in the outer void. Only recently has dispute arose between my Patriarchs and the Magarrie. They do not accept our Sats anymore since the war started. They only accept bitcoins directly from the core. I was only four cycles old when the war began so I am used to it." Emilien felt a conflicting disturbance, thinking about how his body is only two cycles active but his mind stretches back far beyond this time. Being both older and younger than his partner in discourse. "Helloo? I lost you there for a moment Scott." "What are you thinking about?" Emilien lied to her faking emotion. "I was just thinking about the tremendous loss of life that we are orbiting. The planet embedded with what it's inhabitants assumed would be it's portal to prosperity became the golem of it's demise." He was happy that Maurelle seemed to empathise and mirror his philosophic grief. "Come with me I want to tell you a secret. You like secrets." She stood up taking his hand gently tugging, compelling him to follow her. She led him to the far end of the room. She pulled a small levered switch and the wall folded in on itself to reveal a impressive window flooding sharp light into the whole of the large room as it retracted. They both squinted and lifted their hands to shield their eyes adjusting to the glare of Sol. The scene of destruction appeared even more dramatic and morbid as dark sharply defined shadows clipped with golden edges, evoking a sense of isolation and suffering. "These gates were supposed to be a gift to Earth. A hope of spreading humanity across the stars like the children of Abraham." Emilien smirked. "You believe that nonsense?" She rested her head on his shoulder still holding onto his arm. "Our patriarchs have preserved the mysteries of mankind for millennia. I said that I am going to tell you a secret don't patronise me. I do not believe anything. What I know, it is not faith. It is understanding. Knowledge, a type of knowledge that you cannot quantify with mathematics and chemistry. It is a higher science that is proven by the unmistakable coincidence of fate. It is invisible to those who are ignorant and they who despair, those who have lost all hope are blind to this promise." Emilien felt a strange remorse. "I guess I must be blind then." The lights suddenly shut down and the song stopped dead in it's track, like Macy promised. Overcome by the majesty of the scene Maurelle wiped a tear away fearing that her makeup might get ruined. "Anyone can see. They must just open their eyes voluntarily and be honest with themselves. Their true original selves. Who they were made to be." Emile felt judged and wanted to end this conversation quickly. "I am going back to my ship, you have a good night now." She grabbed tightly at his wrist almost painfully. "You do not want to know my secret?" Emelien was becoming annoyed with her insistence he removed her hand from his arm. "I don't think you know any real useful secrets, sweetheart." He sounded threatening, the real enshrouded unmistakable him breaking through the act. She looked at him unintimidated by his sudden shift in personality. "Oh, so I suppose you know why the Juela are at war for most of our lives?" He sarcastically extended his arms forward palms up in restrained but evidently mocking adoration. "Please enlighten me priestess." "They are fighting over this." She pointed at the epic scene of destruction drifting statically out of view as the stations rotation cut it off at the edge of the window. The shadows chased Sol light away sliding like a retracting blade across the room leaving it dark. Emilien burst out angrily. "They are fighting over satoshis! That is all they ever fight over! What I fight for, Damnit! Sats and the resources to gain more of it! That is the beginning and end of all things! Anyone in the universe with even the slightest lick of self worth works, fights and dies for sat!" Maurelle stared astutely at him unemotionally affected by his outburst. She obviously had experienced this exact reaction before and suddenly Emilien realised that he might be the one being manipulated by a smarter and wiser being than himself. "Are you done my love? Have you made your point or is there some other deeper understanding you wish me to internalise into my ignorant small little world?" She threw at him a spiteful sarcasm of her own. "Do you really think I do not know what it means to be seduced by wealth? Luxury?" She took a step closer to him. "Pleasure?" Emilien felt stupid and disarmed this time adding emotionally disarmed to the defeat of being inept in his own body. "I am not a fool mon cherie. The truly wealthy don't fight for wealth, they fight for power. But the noble and sincere fight a different fight with a different weapon. They use words to fight, ideas to win. They fight to gain trust with words, and they fight to retain it with consistency in their actions. Trust is a currency that makes sat seem like shit in comparison because it is real even though you do not believe what you cannot hold in your hand, like your beloved sat." She pointed at the ring on his finger. "Trust only retains value if you honour your words with your actions. Its value is fragile and can disappear in a moment of weakness like water vapour, cherished as the source of life then gone, poof, evaporated. Like magic. This type of trust if gained and retained correctly, projects you forward into the realm of immortality." Emile felt stung and hurt on a personal level, unsure if she was generalising or targeting his own specific weakness purposely. It confused him and made him feel insecure. "What are they fighting for then?" He asked slightly surrendering to the unexpected superior reasoning. Maurelle appreciated the honesty she identified as sincere. She gently took his hand again and led him back to the large convex window. They stood silently for a block, waiting on the rotation to pull the bright light of Sol back into the room. "They are fighting for the power to do that." She pointed at Earth in all it's terrible glory. "The destruction caused by the gate was a terrible cataclysm outside of humanities collective control. The core and the gates are a mystery to mankind." She looked up at Emilien, relieved to see that he was still taking her seriously. "The Maggarie have discovered a weapon that has the power to destroy a planet. The Juel think they are fighting to free Osteri captives from slavery but the real motif is hidden, our Patriarchs unadmitted fear of being inferior to the Maggarie. Most of the goods we traded with them they have stopped accepting, the Shiv and Osteri still buy our products but the Maggarie have suddenly lost the need for our produce, even raw material in it's basest forms. They are expanding somehow and the balance of interdependence has tilted out of our favor. They have no more need for us and have cast us aside like a filthy rag." She paused in thought. "Their new super weapon is the cause of this conflict monsieur Scott." Emilien shrugged. Feeling relieved at regaining the intellectual high ground he thought he had lost. "I'm sorry Maurelle. I have no data on this weapon. If this was true the forums on my bulletin board would have leaked information about it's existence epochs ago, it's been just over three cycles everyone would have known this by now. It sounds more like Jeul fearmongering or perhaps it is the daydreaming fairy tale of an innocent naive girl who worships old myths and legends of a time dead for thousands of years." He pointed at Earth. She sniffed away a hint of emotion and anger. "Well then, I have nothing more to say to you, Good night monsieur Scott." She pulled away from him pridefully and looked out at the enormous gate embedded like a knife into the earths crust. "You are a swine monsieur Scott, leave me alone with my pearl." Emilien stepped back mockingly bowing slightly. "Good night sweetheart." He walked back to his craft laughing inside himself. "Stupid woman." He muttered, although be it doubtfully. ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.05

Hithe III The counsel convened and an area of land had been designated as suitable for an industrial scale landing site of tier III size void vessels. All Kaspian land owners were required to donate workers for the initiative. It was an exciting affair for all involved. With an evergreen tree line to hinder the on and off breeze, tables were assembled and covered with a unique assortment of table cloths. Every lady brought one along and the embroidery on each was the cause of many flattering remarks. The women brought all sorts of food and refreshments, had gazebo's set up and had chairs placed well away from the noise and dust of the demarcated construction site. The men where organising equipment, measuring bedrock depth and organising the labour parties into manageable groups. In spite of all the mothers most dire warnings to stay clear of the areas where active construction would be taking place, the children knew they had free reign to explore and play wherever they wanted. The oxen bellowed incessantly, tethered in long lines before their carts, a slave armed with standard bullwhip, ready to man his post atop each wagon. Albin sat on the ground chewing on a stalk of wheat. Being barely old enough to help the men with their work, he was ordered to do nothing more than spectate. Having received concerned looks from the adults, repeating tropes of how he might get hurt and be in the way. He made peace with his lot. The fact that he was going to see void craft was exciting enough to satiate his curiosity for adventure. He would inadvertently lean back and look up expectantly only to see the clear sky then rock forwards back to his previous position. His only regret was that Seth was not with him to discuss and share in the experience. Seth was old enough to work alongside the other slaves, robbing Albin of good company. He glanced back at the large groups of women and smaller children, his mother stuck out like a sore thumb seeing as she was the only lady wearing pants amongst the variety of her chemise, spring attired peers. Her hair was braided and she had an unopened parasol at hand. No one dared ask why her odd choice in outfit though you knew they thought ill of it by their confused and somewhat unduly patronising looks. Before dawn, when they were still at the manor Albin asked her why she was dressed funny and she said that she would prefer not making a spectacle of herself. He just shrugged and did not think much of it again until just now. It seemed to him that she was the only spectacle around not even having brought a table cloth to adorn her bench like the other woman did. He decided to get something to eat and drink because the texture and taste of the dried stalk had become slightly off-putting making him spit out little bits of grass as he stood up. Cleolia smiled affectionately when she saw her boy approaching and peered over her shaded glasses. He lifted the picnic basket off the ground and put it on the heavy bare wooden table, filled a cup with milk and swallowed it down almost as quickly as he had poured it. "Are they going to be late." He asked his mother. "I'm sure they will arrive soon my dear." She replied while taking a seat in a folding chair. Albin grabbed a handful of pretzels and looked around ponderously as he ingested the snack. The people always enjoyed community gatherings of this sort. Lot's of catching up and gossip happening in a cheerful non insidious way. A type of orderly chaos that brought feelings of peace and tranquillity to the conscious observer. His daydream was broken by a soft but clearly distinct repetitive dong of the distant church tower. His dad and father Ecknard were there using the comms, he assumed they were signalling for something. A long shrill whistling sound caught Albins attention and he began walking towards the furthest groups of men while scanning the area intently. The discernible pitch of Seth's whistle became audible again and Albin honed in on the direction the sound was coming from. He saw his friend standing on an ox cart waving his woven satgat frantically trying to get Albin's attention. As soon as they established eye contact he pointed in a very specific north western direction upwards at the dome of the sky. Albin followed his gaze and for a moment thought his mind is playing a trick on him, but it became apparent that a silhouette of something oddly pale was stuck in the sky with nondescript features. Recalling his studies he managed to identify the craft. It was a Dragon IV Cargo vessel. A Magar craft and supposedly very impressive, the distance did not do it justice, yet the uncanny feeling that X fold more people were floating in a box in the sky than were on the planet made Albin's stomach flip and he felt off balance. He sat down on the ground again to prevent him from stumbling around trying to keep his legs under his body. As soon as the church bell ceased it's tolling a smoke signal was ignited in the clearing beyond the work parties. The yellow smoke billowed up in sharp contrast to the greenery of the fields. III percussive shots thundered through the air like cannon fire causing a sudden change in environmental ambience. Birds were visibly swarming up from trees as far as the eye could see. Albin chose not to remove his sights from the giant void craft. He saw a light in the atmosphere that became distinct as it neared separating into the underbellies of III descending craft. Albin murmered. "The Dragons payload." His excitement grew as did the vessels on their approach. At first a hum growing into a crescendo of weird harmonic roaring as the vessels fought mightily to resist Hithe's above average gravitational pull. All the men tipped their satgats and hard hats to cover their faces, the oxen also faced away. Albin did not want to look away but was forced to turn his head as a powerful gust loaded with projectiles of sand and grass peppered his face sharply. Looking back he saw his mother promptly opening her parasol and pointing it in the direction of the landing, then the real spectacle occurred. All the woman covered their faces only to have their skirts blown up exposing their undergarments, in turn trying to push down their skirts uncovering their faces. The risk of shame weighed against tolerance to pain combined into a beautiful ballet of embroidered cloth being wrapped around trees and condiments strewn around the shaded grove with gazebos escaping the scene followed by children running after them in heated pursuit. Cleolia's pant legs fluttered rapidly around her ankles. As soon as the III vessels turbulence settled she folded her parasol and reassumed her previous position as if nothing of note had transpired. Smiling carefree amongst the distraught group women and children around her. Albin would have laughed at the scene had his eyes not stung so badly. "Mother always knows best." He mumbled to himself as he stood up brushing dust off his undercoat. The opening of the ships cargo bays where announced with a loud hiss of air depressurising. Albin casually sauntered over to get a closer look. The cattle marched up the ramps wagon in tow to park directly alongside the freight. The goods consisted of thousands of long coach bolt like nails as long as fence posts and sturdy modular steel plates stacked on mobile pallets and tied down securely. Albin imagined them to look like giant, shiny metal puzzle pieces. The primitive vehicles and their crews made quick and efficient work of releasing the straps and with the help of overhead cranes hoisted the pallets and their contents into the wagons. Two uniformed men came out from inside the ship and stood watching the men unload their craft. Albin noticed the smartly dressed pilots. "Holy servants of the Empire." He spoke softly under his breath. His desire to meet these champions of the void felt necessary to him. They who travel among the stars much like the stories he always heard about his parents. The men were standing safely apart from the work parties, Albin mustered the courage to approach them. He timidly walked up behind them. "Ahem, Hallo Sir." The pilots looked around surprised. Albin seemed respectful and quaint. "Hey kiddo, you guys have a lovely planet." The pilot replied friendly. "What type of craft are these, sir?" The man gestured towards his vessel in reply. "These? They are standard Type I Droppers. Nothing really special about them." Albin nodded. "Are you from Magar void?" "I am indeed. It is really magnificent but you have something quite spectacular yourselves." Albin did not expect that anything in his little world could impress these well travelled gentlemen. "Like what?" He insisted questioningly. "Like the sol shield. You know the star inhibitor. It's a marvel of our time." The man pointed at Ceb. Albin understood. "Oh yes, my pa put it there so we can all survive here." Both pilots looked at each other surprised. Their demeanour changed and Albin suddenly felt uncomfortable. The man knelt down until he was eye level putting his hand on Albins shoulder clenching it just tight enough to not be painful. "If you are a Domitian heir, then I am an Osteri dancing girl at a Juel gentlemans club." His sarcastic tone cut Albin's pride. "You'd better run along and go play with your friends before I decide to arrest you or report you to the authorities." The other pilot looked away ignoring Albin's confused expression. The man assertively shoved Albin away from him. Albin just barely prevented himself from falling on his rear. Tears welled up in Albin's eyes, he turned and ran away humiliated and angry. But he choked back the tears, choosing to embrace the anger in place of emotional release. He ran away from the construction zone also avoiding the picnic area. He did not want to be around anyone. His erratic and emotional mood would betray his experience if anyone he loved interacted with him. He ran into a shaded area of wood and sat down on a stump to digest and try to reset his state of mind to normalcy. He sat quietly for about III blocks when he heard laughter from beyond the wood. There were a group of boys standing circled around an Osteri boy and girl. The girl was crying. Albin witnessed the interaction. "You are not supposed to be here. Only the working slaves are here today." The boy pleaded with his captor in reply. "I only came to find my sister, we are going back to the village now. Please let us go." "But what was she doing here then? Huh?" Albin walked into the centre of the fray interrupting the entire affair. Standing squarely in front of whom he assumed was the primary instigator. The biggest guy in the bunch. "They are only curious to see the void craft. That is why we all came here today." He explained diplomatically. The big kid sneered. "And who are you to tell me how to treat slaves. You are Magar, you should know better." Another kid piped in. "My mama told me he is Kaspa." The bully looked around surprised. Another boy opined. "Not true, my mom said that his mother was pregnant for 40,000 blocks." And then another kid had to add his understanding to the discussion. "No, no, my pa said that she lost the baby at birth and adopted a slaves child." Albin got overwhelmed with the revelations of rumour and petty gossip surrounding his person. "That does not give you the right to bully them!" Albin pointed to the brother and sister. The big boy smiled a snide retort leaning forward mockingly. "No, but I might have the right to bully you, Osteri bastard child of a slave." Albin felt all natural sense of humanity drain from his being. He turned feigning to leave, balled his fist and swung, socket-ting the unprepared target square on the throat. He fell on his back and the angst of restricted breath became evident first to himself and then to all watching. Albin turned to the siblings. "You can go." The pair hurriedly left and none of the boys even hinted at preventing them. Albin looked at all the others dead in the eye each in turn. Then he left walking the long distance towards his mother. He was thirsty and his hand smarted a little, but he felt much better. ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.04

Emilien was hanging face down inside an enclosure of thick egg shaped glass attached to a mechanised vehicle. Kevlar webbing hugged him tightly into a bucket seat. Long hydraulic arms being manipulated intuitively by a console in his hands and a module interface plugged into his cybernetic neck socket. The bulky animated machine clung like some Lovecraftian spider to the outer hull of his space station. Some cycle’s previously he did data security updates and backtesting for a deep space mining company's security protocols. After seeing their utility, enquired if he could purchase one as partial payment for his contract. Unfortunately they had none for sale but were willing to give him a retired malfunctioning unit gratis. He purchased a maintenance manual on the void web and had connections who helped him source some replacements for the faulty parts. Since then the machine enabled him to be functionally productive in the void, giving him the degrees of freedom and fine motor skills necessary to perform upkeep on stationary deep void assets. The glass of the egg auto dimmed as he laser welded tightly slotted panels together on the previously damaged space station. “How do you feel?” He asked. Abruptly breaking hours of silence. “I’ve been playing around. My capacitance recharge responds well to dump loads, turret retraction gears all functional again. I feel good.” Astrid responded. “Nice. Slowly pressurise the holding chamber for me.” “In progress.” The spider crawled several meters out of the way to safety. Emilien's eyes scanning up and down for leaks. “Slowly babe.” Some minutes passed. “Fully pressurized and stable.” The mechs giant front arms extending, lifted as it stood up on its four hind legs throwing an arachnid shadow across the hull. Emilien flung his arms down crashing a violent concussive blow to the hull in a thunderous clang. The arms retracted. “Still good?” His demeanour remained unchanged. There was a pause. “All good.” Astrid replied. Emilien smiled, Astrid was the best and his feelings of endearment were genuine. “Can we power up the chamber through a fused circuit.” He sensed a soft hum throughout emanating from deep below. “Is the body stable?” “The body is stable. Cryogenic chamber battery backup is at forty three percent. Charge reapplied. Potential of clone spoilage averted. Well done commander.” He could up the ante of risks knowing that his reserve life was secured. “What’s next on the agenda?” “Firstly, signal quality from the drift gate is poor and I am losing connection to the web intermittently.” Emilien nodded. “The gate’s been moving further away. It’s a line of sight problem. I’ll place a relay outside the asteroid belt.” “Secondly, we should see if the husk on the explorer vessel has intact data or a black box. Someone might be looking for them.” He heaved back and vaulted himself off the station in the direction of the wreck micro thrusting for minor trajectory adjustments, with an elegant crash he finally perched on the ship, it gained an almost imperceptible drift as it absorbed the weight of Emilien’s mass, pushing debris along with it. His size would not allow him to move through the standard doors and passages so he opted to disassemble, cut and break apart the hull adjoining the bridge. When he had broken open a space of sufficient size to manoeuvre through, he powered the backlights on, he first peeked inside to familiarise himself with the layout. The egg suspended itself in front of the opening. It was a standard enough bridge doubling as an unorthodox crypt. There were three sets of boots, overalls and coagulated blood all jammed into the slit of the semi sealed door leaving the bridge. An assortment of rubbish floating around casting doubled up shadows larger than themselves. Emilien looked at the mess with sullen eyes. “Shit heads.” He mumbled to himself. All the seats had their safety belts buckled correctly . He concluded that what they experienced must have sucked pretty bad. His mechanical exoskeleton slithered and gripped like an octopus as he entered and positioned himself before the primary interface. His vehicle plugged itself into the command terminal, measuring resistance for shorts before powering it up from his suit. “Can you pull the data and dump it somewhere safe?” “No problem, please wait.” He closed his eyes as he usually did when doing the mundane. Astrid spoke. “They are Osteri. No one will be looking for them any time soon.” “Howcome?” “Recently a blockade has been established at the Lion gate. Magar Capital Vessels are not allowing unvetted ships to pass through into Magar void.” A sense of concern crept over Emilien. “What is considered unvetted?” “Sanctions and trade embargo’s against the Juel.” “Is there a log somewhere you can access with records of flights that do get permission.” He suddenly felt a pang of claustrophobia. Ironically, not because he was strapped down in a glass egg within a wasted bridge plastered with corpse splatterings. Astrid took longer than usual to reply. “Who get’s through babe?” His tone hinted of impatience and irritation. “I’m sorry, unable to access any data from Magar void. It appears to have a firewall blocking all two way communication on the open web.” Emilien remained silent. The upload completed. He disconnected himself from the husks terminal, clambering out of the tomb and pushed himself away from the vessel drifting back to the space station. Astrid was pulling and scanning various shipping logs when Emilien entered the room. He paced up and down the way he would when he was brainstorming. “I need intel.” Astrid projected a holographic avatar of herself standing near where Emilien was pacing. “A large shipment of Kaspian Bochet passed through less 428 blocks. Transported by the Shiv Inter-void Mercantile Co.” Emilien stopped in his tracks and looked back.\ “Can you ping Warren?” Astrid processed. “Warren is offline. He might have left the divide?” Emilien turned around with his hands folded behind his back.\ “He never leaves the divide, he is too obsessed with the core. He would also be arrested if he is ever caught in any of the outer void territories.” Astrid flickered the way she did when something did not compute. “Then why can’t I ping him?” “Because he’s at Macy’s. He has always had a crush on her and he likes good Bochet.” "Well, I could'nt ping Macy if I wanted to." Astrid stated matter of factly. Emilien nodded. "I know, you never could, no one can." ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.02

A knock on the door awoke Cleolia. “Yes, come in?” A slave girl peeked into the door lighting her own face with the candle she was holding. “The master calls for you madam.” “What time is it?” She queried. “It is high night madam.” Cleolia climbed out of bed and followed the maiden’s flickering light to the dining hall. Dressed in a nightgown she entered the room to see her husband staring down at a large glowing data pad. “And when did we start using electronics?” She questioned with restrained surprise. “Since we started using extractors.” Cleolia gasped. Domitius pointed towards the pad which displayed a geographic map of Hithe III. He pulled the image to the latitude and longitude of the colony. “Do you remember when we visited this planet the first time, just you and me alone?” Domitius appeared to reminisce romantically. “Of course, it is impossible to forget.” Cleolia gestured appreciatively. “Can you show me on the map where we landed and where we camped?” She put her hand on the data pad, swiped the image down and the reading north about three hundred kilometres from the colony to stop at the meandering river. With her thumb and index finger she zoomed to the precise location. “And do you remember where I scanned those Geo samples?” She pulled the image east slowly until she thought that the contours looked familiar. “Here I think.” Was her uncertain reply. “That is correct. My love, listen to me... “the urgency in his tone was apparent.” ...the composition of that rock cannot be penetrated by standard tier scanners. After we had returned to Magar Prime I contracted a spacer to excavate a tunnel into that cliff.” “Why?” Her eyes darted between his face and the data pad. “Inside the cavern he assembled two Asp shuttles. The twins are each fitted for speed... with shields, cloak and warp function.” “Why are you telling me this?” Cleolia became worried. “I originally planned to be able to evacuate the whole colony, slaves included. We knew very little about the planet and I had to plan for a possible emergency...” He trailed off never finishing his thought. “...Nevertheless, it was a very extensive list of possible risks we might have faced. We knew very little about this planet. The colony has expanded far beyond the capacity of these ships. I share this information with you only as a precaution... We must protect our son.” Cleolia noticed his bloodshot eyes. “Who else knows of this?” “Myself, Father Ecknard and now you.” She looked at him with concern in her eyes. “Are you going to stay up all night? Come to bed.” Domitius gestured agreement by turning off the pad and taking her hand. "Have you been hiding more gadgets from me? I'd really like to install some heat dampeners to cool the manor." He cracked a reluctant smile. "Pretty soon it might just be the norm." Deep Void - Anchor 9 Emilien was lying sleeping in his cockpit when a yellow light in the HUD and a soft repetitive buzz woke him, he stretched himself out and reached for the console. “I am almost home baby.” He took over from auto pilot and broke out of warp twenty thousand kilometres from an anchor gate. He hit the void scan and tuned to listen for chatter on all frequencies... the channels were silent, not even a hint of encryption static. The giant and slowly spinning gate had idle state radiation emission levels. “No recent jumps.” He waited in silence for 12 blocks hitting void scan intermittently, scanning the gate more than anything else. “No traffic as per usual.” Emilien aimed his Stripper guns towards the gate and boosted himself forwards. Gradually slowing down to realign with the gate. His ship slowly drifted into the active coil as the gate charged up. Large bolts of charge reached forth like tentacles of the leviathan grabbing onto the voidcraft consuming it, and in what can only be described as being flung by a supernatural slingshot, jerked his vessel into a different reality. Emilien looked up at the roof of his cockpit for the duration of the jump and then began a slow countdown under his breath. “One!” He sat up and punched void scan while simultaneously scanning all channels. His craft materialised in front of a replica of the previous gate, except this gate was eternally boosting itself forward at what appears to be a snails pace relative to the speed of the jump. “Silent as a tomb.” He relaxed and pulsed his ship lightly away from the drift gate and waited for the residual cloak to dissipate. His relief was palpable. “I wonder if she noticed me?” As soon as his ship decloaked a private comms channel pinged. The caller, in well articulated feminine tone spoke first. “Welcome back commander.” Emilien admired the view of his void. He had become so attached to this zone that he even felt jealous to think that any interloper could fly through it in his absence. “Did you have any guests while I was away?” Emilien admired the purple dust cloud of what he believed to be a couple of billion year old super nova. “I did have one visitor. They were very friendly.” His heart felt a dull pain. His virgin territory had been discovered. “Where did they come from?” “I believe they were explorers.” “Did they know where you were?” “I played hide and seek with them.” Emilien had a recurring dream that slowly conceived in his consciousness since he finally settled down, that he could power off the drift gate in his system preventing jumps and reactivate it at his leisure. The dream frustrated him, when he wakes to find reality not so forgiving. “Did you hide or did you seek?” “A little of both.” A subtle rage developed inside him though his stone like expression would never betray it. The asteroid belt he was approaching grew larger considerably faster as he increased the speed of his approach. He hit void scan just to be sure that the intruder was not in the direct vicinity. “Are they still here Astrid?” “No, I destroyed it for you.” The Stripper drifted around an asteroid within the belt exposing a space station tethered to the largest roid and the husk of a unidentifiable ripped up prospector type explorer vessel floating amongst it's own debris. “Did it hurt you?” “I had to feign lack of fire power.” “Bastard! How much damage did you take.” “I have lost sixty percent of my capacitance recharge rate. And I cannot feel all my modules... Emilien” “Yes baby?” “They used droids on me.” His face twisted into a look of disgust. He aligned to dock with the station. “May I?” “Permission granted.” The Stripper entered the hanger before the doors had retracted to maximum and landed gently within the interior hanger. “I'll patch you up, don't worry.” Emilien waited for Astrid to complete atmospheric adjustment and climbed out of his craft. He threw back his hood and jogged up a long passage of conduits and cables to the command centre of his station. A large screen lit up in a glow that hues within the dark circular room and Astrid projected Emilien's favourite interface onto it. “I have to update your systems girl.” He pulled a cable from his trouser pocket which he deftly plugged into an implant on his neck and connected the other end to the control panel which prompted him to type in the password for a decryption protocol. He stood still as a corpse waiting for the upload to complete. “Up to speed?” “Yes, thank you. How would you have me adjust myself to this contract?” Emilien smiled an affectionate smile that only Astrid ever sees. He loved the efficiency and companionship combined into perfection. “I need to research the incentives of my contractor, these guys are A grade assholes. I can literally do whatever I find necessary as long as I am successful at guiding a third party mercenary group into taking military control of any system I choose in recently settled Kaspa regions, setting up a blockade and making it accessible for a strip mining fleet to pillage as many resources as possible. They say it’s part of the greater war effort but this Mr Dierre guy is just a puppet. I think they are desperate.” Astrid's avatar flickered irregularly. He looked up at her with concern. “What’s wrong?” “I reviewed your flirty remarks with the secretary. It made my algorithm glitch. I don’t like that.” His worry abated, “First impressions matter baby, I was not sure how to present myself, I needed to poke and prod at them to extract metadata. If they thought I was just an obedient soldier I would still be in the dark.” Astrid projected a look of relief. “Your ingenuity never ceases to surprise me.” Emilien felt his ego swell a little. “Are you that easy to impress.” He quipped with a playful sneer. “If you needed him to expose the identity of his employer I could have easily just pulled the shareholders and executives records, cross referencing them to...” Emilien shussed her. “Just decrypt the dial command tones and place eavesdropper malware on the keypair. I will broadcast it to the network directly from the gate. If we capture every conversation he has I might be able to prove a hunch.” “What are you assuming?” “That they are running out of inbound liquidity and that the shareholders are hesitant to rebalance.” He looked directly up at her. “I think they are going bankrupt.” ... #scifi

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Null in void 0.01

3 standard cycles later. Albin was lying on a two meter high rock outcropping. It was warm from Ceb light but he dared not move. His adrenalin was pumping but he could scarcely take a breath for fear of being heard. His thumping heart was so loud it made him paranoid. He crawled forward and peeked over the edge of the low precipice. A dangerous and savage escaped slave was on his trail, ready to scalp and gut him. If only he could flee to his safe zone. He heard a long low whistle from across the valley. A light flashed from amongst some dense shrubbery at an estimated two hundred metres away. He pulled a mirror from his pocket preparing to return the signal. “This increases my chances.” He thought to himself. He knew that their common enemy was behind him and could not possibly see the reflection of Ceb light if he directed said light perpendicularly away from the hunter. He flashed with his mirror five times towards his ally, two second counts between each flash. No immediate response... he waited. Light flashed from the shrubbery and immediately he became aware of movement in the tall grass behind him. He resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder. The sweat exploded off his forehead. He remained still. It seemed like minutes though it was only a few seconds. Light flashed again. Grassy movement sounds recurred, heart now racing. Third flash. A burst of movement from the rear left at around eight O clock. Albin turned his head and pressed his right cheek against the cooking rock. A tanned thirteen year old youth raced past below him at unbelievable speed. Scruff cloth pants, barefoot with no shirt and a trailing headband. Albin pushed himself up to his hands and knees. “If there is fifty meters distance between us I could risk running for the manor.” The shrubs on the other side of the valley started to rock violently and birthed a boy in a buttoned up shirt with leather shoes and woven short breeches all tailor made. The boy ran with all his might towards the Domitian manor. “This is my chance.” Albin scrambled off the rock and sprinted towards the manor jumping and dodging the hindering bushes and stones. The other party moving parallel to him across the valley. Seth caught sight of Albin but did not change target and kept course. He held a small blunt wooden object caught up to his first victim and proceeded to stab his prey in the back with it. “Ha, you're dead!” Seth exclaimed while immediately changing course to intersect his secondary target before he gets inside the safe zone. “Not fair. It’s not fair you cheat!” The belligerent player cried dismally. Seth did not care for the accusation in spite of not realising that Albin actually sacrificed his ally to gain a tactical advantage. He was determined to get both kills and be victorious. Albin felt less secure in his current situation and began to doubt his previous assessment of fifty meters and thought that an earlier head start might have been a more favourable risk assessment. “Don't panic Albin, focus.” He reproved himself. Recalculating his speed in comparison to the speed of his hunter, estimated the future point of contact. Veering to the right he sagaciously aimed for the far corner of the estate gardens, increasing the distance of his run to the demarcated safe zone considerably more for his rival than for himself. The race became more intense with the hunter closing in... “I’m alive!” Was the triumphant breathless utterance as the knife swiped past the back of his neck mere centimetres. Albin fell on the trimmed lawn panting. Looking back he saw Seth in a similar condition of respiratory suffering. The loser was still far away grumbling and kicking at the weeds. Seth grinned, “I almost had you.” Albin just nodded in agreement. “I'm thirsty... water, milk or wattle gum juice.” “Wattle gum juice!” Seth exclaimed without hesitation. Albin knew that the slave would never say no to the delicacies and confections of the common people but gave him the option to choose either way. He brushed the grass clippings off his clothes and entered through the back door of the manor. In the kitchen he poured juice into three demure clay mugs whilst noticing emanations of a heated conversation from the foyer. His curiosity bested him. Albin went in and sat himself down on the staircase and gulped at his beverage. The adults scarcely noticed him. “The people are ready to accrue for themselves better prospects in the colony!” The tradesman appealed with fervour. “Your proposals would be sensible under normal circumstances but colonial expansion is best suited for peacetime.” Domitius riposted. “This war has been going for almost III standard cycles, are the people supposed to pause their dreams and ambitions for some vaguely defined purpose. Please consider that an expansion program will be beneficial to the war effort eventually.” Domitius knew that he was being evasive and dishonest. He was finding it more difficult to guide the colony according to his vision, their growing despondency was worsened by his deflecting their requests with indirect excuses. Domitius did not want to rule with force, his exerting authoritarian command would only foster resentment towards him among the Kaspian landowners. “We do not have a militia. How would we keep an influx off world slaves servile if the war seems to tilt against the Empire?” Domitius replied with rhetoric. “It is a valid concern. Mechanical labour is the solution. We should convene a council to address these issues and come to consensus.” The traders uncompromising insistence triggered Domitius past the limit of his patience. “This will not turn into a democracy! Tell me what you require and I will consider it, if I do not agree with you I will annul it and appoint an inquisitor to judge and punish all who dissent!” The tradesman lost his composure and shrunk back. “My lord, I am reluctant to admit... there are no requests.” “No requests?” “Yes my lord.” Domitius was puzzled. The tradesman’s son came into the room with his cup of wattle juice and sat down next to Albin. “Father Ecknard very recently informed me of the news... I had applied for a licence half a cycle previously.” Domitius felt uneasy. “What news?” “... A licence has been issued from Kaspa Prime... they are sending extractors to Hithe III.” Domitius went pale. Thousands of implications flooded his mind. Economic problems, ecological issues and a very much more complex political situation. He remained unresponsive for a moment. “I understand. Isidor, you may go.” The tradesman bowed lower than was required of him then reached towards his son. “I apologise for my insolence.” Domitius ignored the man who quickly left the premises. Domitius looked at his son. “Never become too familiar with your subjects, they become derisive. Damn it! He has created more problems for us than he could comprehend.” “Yes pappa.” He agreed with his father instinctively. “Pappa? Are we going to see real space ships!” “We are...” Domitius appreciated his son's innocence. “big ones.” He smiled with all but his eyes. Juela Prime - Capitol Emilien was waiting patiently in the office lobby of a towering high rise structure. One of thousands of competing banks on the Juel Capitol. He had a valid appointment and felt annoyed by the guard hanging around near him and kept noticing the suspicious glances. “What are you looking at.” he hissed from under his hood. “You a spacer?” “Maybe.” The guard did not follow up on his question, he did not leave either. The door slid open and a impeccably well groomed secretary beckoned at him. “Mr Dierre is ready for you.” “Thank you sweetheart.” He brushed past her sticking a pernicious grin right in her face, she gagged. “Welcome Mr Emilien, I hope you had a good trip.” The bank chief executive greeted with outstretched arms. “Nice suit, I always have good trips. Is it very expensive?” The spacer gestured toward the fabric while looking around and sizing up the situation. “More than you know.” The executive smugly responded and proceeded to open a cabinet containing differently labelled flasks filled with various hues of alcohol. “I know quite a lot.” Emilien licked his lips. The banker hesitantly offered a serving which was accepted without vacillation. “I always thought that you void jumpers would be more reluctant accepting unverified consumables?” Dierre smiled a questioning look. Emilien swallowed the strong fluid and inhaled deeply. “I have a clone ready. And an implant that up links me directly to my pod. Don't think that if I have to wake up in a fresh body that I won't remember this place, including your mug.” Emilien tapped lightly on his temple seeming threatening and postured while he spoke. The banker nodded in uneasy amusement. “Excellent, excellent. Ahem, The reason we contacted you Mr Emilien, is because we are in business...” He promptly helped himself to a second glass of... whatever alcohol it was, anticipating a speech and a job description. “...the business of war. Currently we are supplying arms to the Juela fleet, who are at war with the Magarrian Empire. They are for the most part, boycotting our factories... which is a shame really, but understandably so. The Shiv Unity are supporting our enemy logistically yet have not joined them in active combat." He walked around his desk swirling the brown liquid round and round as he talked. "We are trying to coax Osteri aggression, but they have occupied themselves in... other endeavours and don't seem as willing as usual to assault Magar territories.” The spacer frowned and feigned curiosity. “Why would you suppose that be?” He interjected. “We are not sure... don't interrupt me, you break my train of thought.” The banker lied and it did not escape his attention. “Continue by all means.” He waved a bottle at the executive leaning back into a comfy black leather chair. “If we get the upper hand in this war we could control vital Magar territories, the profits our companies could absorb from the moons and planets would be virtually tax free and help to continue fund the war effort...” Emilien cut him off with a snide sarcasm. “How philanthropic. I watch your news propaganda...” Emilien slowly sat upright and uncannily performed like a popular Juel news anchor. “Breaking news. The Magar Empire are allegedly oppressing... slaves, it is reported that the war has driven them to desperation and are driving their labour forces harder than what is... morally justifiable. Any petitions made or pleas for leniency, no matter how trivial is met with... corporal punishment. We must be vocal about their plight and fight for... freedom and liberty. You are with The Report. See you next time, and remember, peace everywhere for all.” He mockingly mimics a news anchor's plastic monotone while folding up and shifting around imaginary papers. The secretary sniggered softly from behind her desk, Dierre frowned. Emilien slouched back into his chair. “What would you have me do boss?” The banker remained silent. “Excuse me one moment.” Dierre touched a pad on his desk, privacy panels slid up separating Dierre from his guest and the lady. He opened comms to an unknown voice. Emilien auto tuned up his sonic receptors slightly and closed his eyes listening in uninvited but inconspicuously. "Yes Dierre, make it quick." “Right, good afternoon sir. I am not sure about this character, Mr Emilien, should we not rather employ one of our own for this contract.” “What? No! There is no one else with the expertise and or reputation required for this investment. He has no prior affiliation to us no, no record. Dierre, just hire the man and stop whining like a little bitch! I don't need this type of crap. This was prearranged, what I don’t need is uncalled for opinionated inputs. We have made the decision and you, you explain what we require of them. So explain to the space clone what we need him to do and how much we are going to pay him for it!” The silence was awkward. “Wh... Yes sir.” The banker was keeping good composure under the condescending circumstances. Emilien smiled, a sly joy filling his soulless being. The comms line closed and the privacy panels retreated into the floor to reveal to the banker Emilien, sitting there grinning like an idiot. “How much are you going to pay me?” “Don't you want to know details of the job concerned?” “No. Just show me the figures in sat.” The director handed him a pad. Emilien looked at the glowing screen, his smiled recurred. “I accept this mission.” He glanced over at the secretary who was unassumingly recording minutes at her desk. “Doing anything tonight sweetheart?” She grimaced. Emilien stood up, “Dierre my good fellow I have to go, need to prepare for whatever it is you corpo scumbags are going to make me do.” “Don't you want to know the details involved?” “Send the info to my pod.” “It is sensitive information.” Emilien indifferently stared at Dierre. “I have a secure line... bitch.” Disbelief shot across his face. He walked out of the room, looked back grinning an impossibly large grin and winked at the lady. “See you later sweetheart.” She quickly had the door slide closed. "That was unsettling." She mumbled to herself. ... #scifi

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Sovereignty Through Mathematics Chater 2: Financial Atheism

Bitcoin Infinity Academy - Course 1 Part 2

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Sovereignty Through Mathematics Chater 1: Everything A Trade

Bitcoin Infinity Academy - Course 1 Part 1

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I Dare You to Read This Book

My thoughts on Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative?

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Coming Of Age In The Fourth Turning

How the quickly shifting power structure shapes the generations and breeds opportunity.

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How the pandemic changed us

my book the Extraordinary

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Welcome to Nakamoto Gulch

How Satoshi is the real life John Galt.

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A walk through the museum

Take a walk with me as I walk through Guam's History Museum.

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Would you like another cup of tea❓ First Time (N)ostrich Part two

A cute, whimsical and easily digestible guide to get acquainted to Nostr Wonderland, Part two. Perfect for continuing first time (N)ostriches to learn. Includes two audio links to follow along with the article. This continues from the first article, "First Time (N)ostrich Start Here!”

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Knights of Nostr - Sir Mike Knight

Sir Mike Knight - Lord of Security and his amazing invention of Gossip revolving around NIP-65 "outbox model."

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Leo [Ch.5]

Chapter 5 — The final episode of the Whitey's tale. Bare witness to her final transformation!

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[Thai Article] ในวันที่ตระหนักว่า Proof of Work ของตัวเองมันยังไม่พอ

แชร์มุมมองเกี่ยวกับ Proof of Work ที่เกิดขึ้นระหว่างเดินทางไปตามเก็บของพรีเมียมเกมที่เรารัก

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Phantom Shadow[Ch.4]

Ch.4- make the plan, follow the plan then throw away plan.

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Seer. Critter. Caticorn.[Ch.3a]

Ch.3a - The conflict of the forest comes to an agreement after much disagreement.

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The Gift [Ch.2]

The gift of Caticorn(Ch.2)

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Books To Rend Your Veil Asunder No. 3 - Lee by Tito Perdue

[Lee @ Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1505429.Lee?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=XsLRiTiepT&rank=1) ![image](https://fediverse.blog/static/media/ED984601-4894-D92E-15BC-B6AE72A9E085.jpg) Lee is everything you will never be - an honest person. He is also a diligent reader of the Classics and reverent seeker after Beauty, Truth, and Wisdom - stuff you most likely cannot possibly understand the meaning of, what with your being mcmerican. And yet, in defiance of all imprecatory pleadings for divine retribution, you are somehow allowed to deflatingly plod on in your vacuous and crumbling consumer “lifestyle”? There really must be a God. Finally, and most happily, Lee, our hero, with hardwood cane in hand, is(almost) a voracious cracker of nincompoop noggins like the one upon your shoulders: ![image](https://static.cinemagia.ro/img/db/movie/20/57/46/missing-link-680401l.jpg) If there was any of the aforesaid *qualities* left in this rotting carcass of an aborted nation, Tito Perdue would be a name at least as well known as Stephen Koontz or whatever other chicken-scratching nigger you prospectless LARPers are “reading” these days - what with your focus on maintaining social capital rather than being a man. Alas, you never heard of him. Lord knows he never heard of *you*. For the <1% of you whose balls still swing in a wrecking fashion, Lee is a rompin’ read. The story of a old curmudgeonly man returning to his Alabama hometown after his disenchanting journeys amongst the likes of you and your cohort, what with the absolute cultural and intellectual shitholes you live in and are entirely a product of. Methinks of you as a “scientist” of the Last Time - that is, you likely busy yourself with the fecalized techne of [Refinement of recto-sigmoid colon vaginoplasty using a three-dimensional laparoscopic technique](https://journals.lww.com/md-journal/Fulltext/2021/09030/Refinement_of_recto_sigmoid_colon_vaginoplasty.24.aspx) and/or post-deviant psychological justifications for Drag Queen Climate Penis Storytime at your local nursery. In other words you are a psychopathic cunt and abuser of the Law. Definitely NOT a scientist. Don't even get me going on your idolatrous worship of [germ theory](https://yakihonne.com/article/naddr1qq2ng6fcxpg9vnz2gd2k6hmsvam4562nf4z8yq3qljxdldrq885zamfkn82k7zcjs4lrsf9wykrh9e3hq4thh89vlzxsxpqqqp65w0xsfhh). Unfortunately for our contemplatively-ennobled grouser, the old town isn’t what it used to be. Yeah. Turns out you, your mom, gaggles of dindus, leftover Gommorahns and flocks of the descendents of cannibals moved in. Whilst ruminating upon this dreadful misfortune, Lee happens upon a Tobacco Shop that sports a fine selection of canes: >He should have known the proprietor would be old and irritable, and so it proved; they looked at each other in great annoyance. The sticks themselves were lined up on one side, a good choice, even if the better part of them were too delicate by far for any usages of his. What he wanted would be gnarled and heavy, stalwart enough for smashing skulls; what he found was a “cane,” so-called, with a head on it. Suddenly, he pulled it out and began slashing wildly about, four or five times, before taking it over to the man who was watching in concern. Looking at him, Lee had the impression this person was stuffed with straw, as it were, and that instead of hair, the straw was running out at the top. “Well. I suppose this will have to do.” (Again, he swung wildly.) Much of the rest of the book consists of Lee’s wanderings though the old haunts of his youth. His journey all the while peppered with Perdue’s quirky, fun, playful prose - psychedelically intrusive visions of love, beauty, gloriously irritable grandeur, as well as heartwarmingly mystical encounters and memories of Lee’s recently deceased and beloved Judy, whom, despite her moribund condition, is kind and womanly enough to visit Lee regularly each evening(his method of conjuring being to burn himself with matches): >To his mind nothing could be more odd than that, for all these hundreds of years, so many generations had been retreating at certain specified hours into special chambers, there to lie in silence, stunned for a certain duration. As if the great Zodiac required surcease in order to plot tomorrow’s day. Coming near, he saw his own features in the window, then next a much larger face in the sky, huge and wise and with an airplane toiling through its beard of stars. >He liked to rove mentally into the countryside, flying as it were at about two feet above the level of the earth. It was for this imagination-work, and nothing else, that he had been given a stint in the flesh in the first place. No doubt there was a chill; his disembodied mind, however, felt none of it. Itself, the moon, was thin (two holes in it) and looked as frail as manuscript. He could hear a train making a run for it and, further away, the noise of night animals—all of them quite prepared to perish if only they might first inflict some mortal injury. Now there came up to the window what for him was the last touch—he couldn’t credit his eyes—a grinning toad riding athwart a bat. >Gingerly, he got into his gown and cap and lowered himself into bed, one withered leg after another. Judy was asleep already, as was her habit; he had always admired the blamelessness that let her, as it were, float out to sea and stay for hours in steadfast slumber. Looking at close range into that face with still so much of the child in it, so much of fifty-year-old photographs, he could not begin to envision the civilizations she had seen—pastel lands, hilltops with music, dogs more laughable than any on earth and able also to converse, etc., etc. Whatever it was, she kept it in her head. >In truth, this bed was hardly wide enough for the two of them and the books, pistol, and dictionary besides. Also the candle was weak and gave off a series of little explosions that smelled like a faintly remembered camphor from out of the past. Down below the other tenants had long ago lapsed off in the simplistic dreams of their kind, like so many low-grade films being shown simultaneously in the cells. The last thing he wanted was for his own dreams, which were complex and based upon actual historical fact, to be mixing in with someone else’s dead child. That’s what canes are for ! Myself, as the seasons wane and the psyche wholeheartedly embraces its potent contempt for you and your choices in music, fashion and company(not to mention vocation), I will be adopting the Lee strategy and purchasing a nice solid wood cane that I may deal with your neanderthalensis-shapen head and offensively knobby kneecaps in the only viable manner yet available to myself and the few lovers of books and seekers of wisdom left on this TV saturated zombie plane. Good luck getting stupider. [Get Lee Free Here](https://annas-archive.org/md5/4bb2f02c4525a8a40f9a7ba01f8412c8)

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Books To Rend Your Veil Asunder No. 2 - Virus Mania : How the Medical Industry Continually Invents Epidemics, Making Billion-Dollar Profits at Our Expense

*2 Thessalonians 2:11-13 For this reason God will send upon them a deluding influence so that they will believe what is false, in order that they all may be judged who did not believe the truth, but took pleasure in wickedness. But we should always give thanks to God for you, brethren beloved by the Lord, because God has chosen you from the beginning for salvation through sanctification by the Spirit and faith in the truth.* --- ![image](https://fediverse.blog/static/media/8383C926-175A-9572-FB85-A27A2BCE8568.jpeg) Table of Contents (Chapters Only) About the Authors 1 About the Book 11 Foreword I Prof. Dr. Etienne de Harven, MD This Book Has To Be Read, Quickly and Worldwide 14 Foreword II Dr. Joachim Mutter, MD This Book Will Instigate an Upheaval of Dogmas 18 Introduction Society under the Spell of a One-Dimensional Microbe Theory 19 Chapter 1 Medicine Presents a Distorted Picture of Microbes 35 Chapter 2 The Microbe Hunters Seize Power 59 Chapter 3 AIDS: From Spare Tire to Multibillion-Dollar Business 101 Chapter 4 Hepatitis C: Toxins Such as Alcohol, Heroin, and Medical Drugs Suffice as Explanation 169 Chapter 5 BSE: The Epidemic that Never Was 179 Chapter 6 SARS: Hysteria on the Heels of AIDS and BSE 195 Chapter 7 H5N1: Avian Flu and Not a Glimmer of Proof 213 Chapter 8 Cervical Cancer and Other Vaccines: Policy vs. Evidence 261 Chapter 9 The Big Swine Flu Hoax 289 Chapter 10 Postscript to Chapter 3 About AIDS 319 Chapter 11 10 Reasons against Measels Vaccination 347 Chapter 12 Total Corona Mania: Worthless PCR Tests, Lethal Drugs-and Mortality Data that Makes a Viral Cause Impossible 367 Literature 423 --- # Germ Theory Is Fake And Gay Virus Mania is a good place to start de-conditioning your asshole-self. You know, the scumbag who, in an utterly despicable fashion, throws away the freedoms his ancestors fought for while at the same time sentences his children to a technocratic materialistic medical tyranny in which even their bodily autonomy is cast aside in the name of “public safety” or some such other fanged-vagina commie-speak. For some of us it took a single search online to confirm the bullshit from whence the stench was coming. For others still, believe it or not, not even a search was needed. I, for instance, immediately realized it was absolute bullshit because, you know, it was COMING OVER THE FUCKING TELEVISION. Subsequent ponderings simply fortified this state, so that, for one, it dawned on me that a godless, scientistic, establishment darling such as the midget cunt supreme Tony Faust was indicating to me he had gauged all returns on all prayers. No. That simple. Fuck you. And if thats not a blip on your radar, then maybe it should have dawned on you when the breathless newspeak-ers cut to COMMERCIALS SPONSORED BY PFIZER. And if you didnt check yourself when you saw Nana in a glass cage, reaching fruitlessly for the touch of her grandchildren in her waning hours, surrounded by all the fat grinning dancing jackals so proud of themselves as they blindly raced down the road of Good Intentions; if that didnt make your gorge rise you're already dead. Stop reading this and go read Stanslav Grof's [LSD Psychotherapy](https://annas-archive.org/md5/47d340bd9fb29beda3191ac06e4fbe93) and decide if that might help you. Come back later when you get the internals square. Finally, if you are one of the many who think that because there are so many people calling themsleves scientists and researchers around the world, and that they have consensus, and like nothing so evil and astounding could occur because moms told you "everyone is just doing their best", perhaps its time for a studying up on human nature in earnest. Or, you could go the "feed me" route with accepting what Transparency International (a corruption-exposing entity) had to say about the state of "public health" all the way back in 2006: >From a global viewpoint, there is corruption at all levels of the public health service, from health ministries to patients-and there are almost no limits to criminal imagination. And with that said... # The CORONAtion Of The Antichrist To put it ~~simply~~ another way, if it hasn't dawned on you the relationship of God to personal property, privacy rights, and everything your foldless brain takes for granted as the foundations of western civilization, then just shut your ~~fucking stupid~~ naive mouth and go study history and philosophy for fucks sake. Thus readied, what you will find in the book is a highly-readable and comprehensive takedown of an encyclopedic list of bovine assumptions, theoretical subterfuge, and magickal language spells upon which the so-called THEORY of Infectious Diseases rests. For example, did you know that not a single so-called virus has been isolated according to how you and I would understand that term ? That's right. Never. It's actually a pretty straightforward process wherein a blood sample is placed in a weight-graded solution and spun in a centrifuge. The samples contents become divided and suspended in their constituent weight class, including the virus. Great! Virus isolated we can now photo it with electron microscopy and then transfer the little demon to others, who should then get sick according to the blabbering expert class. However, we don't do that. Instead the finks have opted for unscientific and corrupt conjecture-based fraud combined with the computer-voodoo magic of "modeling" what's going on in the blood via such tools as the PCR test, whose inventor, by the way, is shown here on one video, in the early 90s(!), railing against none other than Anthony Fauci for being a lying, incompetent sack of shit. Another sees him warning about the misuse of the PCR test for something it was NEVER intended to do: *diagnose infectious diseases*. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ogPbJzqtZM https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukxneT_4qwc And for more insight as to the Covid "science" being entirely the product of computer simulations , from the "isolation" of the virus to the use of PCR tests for diagnosis, and straight through to the "vaccines" being pre-coded, armed and ready at the keyboard , see here: https://www.bitchute.com/video/Q89k5m6H2kDP/ and here: https://www.bitchute.com/video/osNullc41duB/ The book covers a huge amount of territory, questioning legitimately the party line on Measles, Spanish Flu, AIDS, naming names and presenting supressed alternative hypotheses. Polio is often touted as evidence for the efficacy of vaccines. But take a look at this graph from the book. It's clear that the cases were trending down relentlessly BEFORE the administration of the vaccine. There is no change in the trend after the vaccine's introduction: ![image](https://yakihonne.s3.ap-east-1.amazonaws.com/fc8cdfb46039e82eed3699d56f0b12857e3824ae258772e63705577b9cacf88d/files/1694533277253-YAKIHONNES3.jpeg) This also brings to mind some charts relative to the recent Crowning-Of-The-Antichrist ceremonies. Here, in country after country, you can see the the massive death spikes occurred AFTER the vaccine rollout. This is from the book *[Cause Unknown](https://annas-archive.org/md5/66aa468e404a02bb975373c4f5ac3a02)* by Edward Dowd - another excellent resource for this topic: ![image](https://yakihonne.s3.ap-east-1.amazonaws.com/fc8cdfb46039e82eed3699d56f0b12857e3824ae258772e63705577b9cacf88d/files/1694533369255-YAKIHONNES3.jpeg) ![image](https://yakihonne.s3.ap-east-1.amazonaws.com/fc8cdfb46039e82eed3699d56f0b12857e3824ae258772e63705577b9cacf88d/files/1694533394821-YAKIHONNES3.jpeg) ![image](https://yakihonne.s3.ap-east-1.amazonaws.com/fc8cdfb46039e82eed3699d56f0b12857e3824ae258772e63705577b9cacf88d/files/1694534025210-YAKIHONNES3.jpeg) *Virus Mania* explores the main characters in history, as well as the crucial "studies" and various "evidences" that have stacked up over the years and on which the entirety of the idolatrous sorcery depends. Louis Pastuer is revealed to be an opportunistic and dishonest researcher who just happened to have the support of the big chemical giants who were hoping to capitalize on such theories. Bet you didnt know that his own grandson revealed his fraud by giving, against the dead man's will, his notebooks up: >Louis Pasteur, one of the legendary figures in the history of science, lied about his research, stole ideas from a competitor and was deceitful in ways that would now be regarded as scientific misconduct if not fraud, according to a revisionist history published this month. None of this would have come to light if not for a long scientific tradition: the laboratory notebook. That quote is from no less than the New York Times for those of you retarded enough to still respect them. --- I know this article has been all over the place, but the issue is huge and I hope I have provided some worthwhile info on the book, as well as some other avenues of exploration for those of you who would continue further. Joachim Mutter, MD Institute of Environmental Medicine And Hospital Epidemiology University Medical Center Freiburg Germany Freiburg, sums up *Virus Mania* well: > The book Virus Mania shows in a simple comprehensible way the diversity of scientific data that proves most of the epidemics presented in the media as horror stories (flu, avian flu, AIDS, BSE, Hepatitis C, etc.) do not actually exist or are harmless. In contrast: Through this scaremongering and through the toxic materials contained in vaccines a vast number of diseases can emerge; diseases that have recently been increasing on a massive scale: allergies, cancer, autism, attention deficit disorder (ADD), attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), autoimmune diseases and disorders of the nervous system. The authors, the journalist Torsten Engelbrecht and doctor of internal medicine Claus Kohnlein, succeed in tracking down the real culprits, including the profiteers in this game. They also identify solutions that everybody can easily implement in their daily lives. This work is one of the most important and enlightening books of our times which will instigate an upheaval of the dogmas and delusions that have held for more than 150 years. [Virus Mania Documentary Series Promo Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lm7kw01UuRo) # Tell Them To Shut Up Before They Destroy Everything With the latest so-called variant on the prowl in the national consciousness due and a number of real idiots resurfacing on my meatspace timeline, is it time to #punchamasker ? At some point, we need to grow up and choose between our already half-dead "friends" and "family" and our progeny. People who continue to maintain the schizophrenic delusion that you can have such a thing as "friends and family" who are in any way "cool" with what went down - the tyranny , the heartless idolatry of scientism and mainstream media and government, etc ad infinitum, are in my opinion delusional. I already made up my mind a long time ago - kids first. Adults are fucked. Grow up. Draw a line. Deal with the consequences and force the fucking war. Get your lanky ass out of the lukewarm middling bathtub - and FIGHT! Lastly, the book is meticulously sourced with a comprehensive index making it a fantastic reference tool to clobber your stupid aunt over her television-saturated head when she opens her witless idolizing mouth and vomits her boneheaded #currentyear proclamations at the next family gathering . --- Find this book and many others here: [Anna's Archive](https://annas-archive.org/)

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