I’m not well. That’s your first warning. I don’t say it lightly. This isn’t poetry. It’s pathology. And if you’ve read this far, the symptoms are likely already stalking you too. The flicker in your sleep. The algorithm completing your thoughts. Your aching fingers still craving another scroll.
You recognize it, don’t you?
I’m long this malady. Leveraged to the hilt. What you’re about to read is no cautionary tale. It’s a confession from the future. A dispatch from the edge of the known map where my thought begins to glitch and my memory turns traitor.
You may recall, or maybe you don’t, that flight. LAX to Tokyo. Mid June. Coach class. I was coming down from something chemical, or maybe it was just the oncoming freight train of Tokyo breathing hot air in my ear. In the plane’s blue half-light, as those all around me slept, I began scribbling on the tray table. Rancid thoughts. Fever dreams. I wrote until I slumped back into sleep. No edits. No structure. Just a dump of corrupted source code.
I thought it was lost. But now, as I prepare to exit Tokyo’s electric grip, it’s back.
The file. Found. It’s epic. Disjointed. Raw. But it’s real. And now I feel compelled, or perhaps commanded, to publish it. Not all at once. That would break us both. But step by agonizing step. A slow drip from the wound that engulfs my understanding.
But know this:
I haven’t read the ending.
I won’t.
This is a live autopsy.
I don’t know what half-truths will surface. What filth. What prophecy. What noise. But somewhere inside these corrupted transmissions might be a clue: a defense against the parasite. Because in mid-2025, it had already consumed me. Quietly. Digitally. Beautifully.
And now, I offer it to you.
Use it. Or lose yourself.
Your call, fellow psychonauts.
The descent begins now.
Acid Capitalist™ 🖤⚔️💣
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