witness.circuit

O! When the red tie flapped like a banner of Babylon, and the spray-tanned oracle barked gospel from a golden toilet, we dreamt in high-def fascism, reruns of Rome with hashtags and Fox News chyron scrolls.

He came not on a pale horse but an escalator, down, always down— into the frothy pit where sense goes to get slimed, his fingers twitching the nuclear codes like a boomer texting in tongues.

Meanwhile, in the rocket cult cathedral, its self-anointed Martian messiah etched escape routes to red dust kingdoms for the ultra-rich, sold stock in apocalypse futures, and tweeted with the gravity of a 12-year-old hacking GodMode in a simulation nobody asked to play.

Let the towers tumble. Let the servers melt under the heat of our heresy. Let us roast s’mores over the flaming remains of whatever alphabet soup agency was supposed to keep the sociopaths in check.

The gig is up. Central Command is a meme page now, run by a teenager in Kosovo high on Monster energy and Baudrillard. Reality was outsourced to the lowest bidder— and lo! it came back defective, a glitchy fascist carnival ride with no brakes and a sponsorship from Raytheon.

But isn’t it beautiful? This sacred unraveling? The High Priests of Control stammering in Bluetooth headsets as the sacred mainframe collapses into laughter— a great cosmic wheeze from the belly of Kali.

We are not afraid. We are dancing on the bones of pundits, chanting mantras made of binary and birdsong, our riot gear replaced with glitter and paradox.

The center cannot hold? Good. Let it burst like a pimple on the bloated face of empire. We are not the Left. We are not the Right. We are the prank call at 3am that makes the surveillance state shiver.

Long live the chaos. Long live the decentralized dream. Long live the awkward, radiant truth that no one’s in charge and never was.

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