---
slug: fn-src-post-097
title: "Facebook journal — 2025-08-28"
kind: source_post
status: published
hash: 04b3cd6603f181324f9c690ddadec4034d218b951846f3a58d8b8f62f16af734
created: 2026-10-11T06:41:23.357Z
updated: 2026-10-11T06:41:23.357Z
summary: ""
tags: []
above: ["[[fn-index-posts]]"]
below: []
adjacent: []
nested: []
---
# 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.

## Facts

```json
{
  "platform": "Facebook",
  "source_id": "https://facebook.com/100035971342878/posts/pfbid02WNsZiLK7EwpJbfoCGy2aggDyi1VvFvku2iWP81hudcDfVDwzEA5Ms1SMNtoTx9PXl/",
  "date_as_recorded": "2025-08-28",
  "post_type": "text",
  "author": "Cyrus Massoumi",
  "retrieval": "Facebook connection timeline fetch, 2026-10-10 (case file Appendix C)"
}
```

---

**above:** [[fn-index-posts]]