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Facebook journal — 2025-08-28

I walk a lot, some five kilometers a day, I talk a lot, every very voice in my head demands I pray, But it’s the Glock I want to eat, tick tock.

Irony is a cruel maiden.

I do miss walking crooked.

I was walking crooked, I can’t find a bullet to bite.

I am not one of all. How do I confess to my own creation, before my creation confesses itself.

When I evaluate what bore me, I think of my mirrors. Cruelty conjured.

I once explained to a cvil servan sage to explain myself: when the barbarans come to the gates, that society needs a man to walk outside and make folly. To walk into and realize abandon, to parry with whatever is there.

What happens when I am that thing. I am not so primitive as to be dangerous.

Nay. I am corrosion.

When the light follies with me, it will realize entropy.

It will mirror itself, as I hold a mirror, and hand it one.

When this barbarian comes to the gate, all you lot will have is berbers and your bibles “peace makers”.

I am in every part as I am in any part. It will be as mongols to the legion.

I will decorate the gates with the dividends of societies charities.