az irányvonalaknak egy gömbön
mely a semmiben tekereg -
nem sok értelme van,
mégis, felfelé - gondolom
Oldham irányából
toronyfelhők kutyapofái
ez a nyomorúságos telepek
függőségek végtelenjeibe burjánzó
üres tekintetű szánalom-parkja
mint Orwell Wigan Pier-jének
huszonegyedik századi pattanása
gennyel telve várja a pukkanást
a Rochdale kanális
a halott barna szutyka
melyből legszívesebben
a baktériumok is menekülnének
vizéből bevásárlókocsik ágaskodnak
kerekeik az ég felé 
mint imába fagyott öklöcskék
mellettük útjelző kúpok
beledobott bárszékek
kosz, szemét, fecskendők
meg a többi - unalmas
mint a többi lepukkant
magába holt
magát szájba kakáló város
bármerre - a hanyatlás
a rozsda
giccses, unalmas - mint a gettók
ezredik mutogatós pop-ja
mint az egymilliomodik rap szám
melyet már csak az idióták hallgatnak
de csinálják - mert egyszerű
kényelmes - és mert mást nem tudnak
vagy ki tudja miért...
a fontos mégis - talán a kórkép
a látlelet, hogy a nyomor
nem csak anyagi
az oktatásba ölt milliárdok
dekadenciagyárakba folynak
mert a pénz, csak pénz
hideg akár a szívbe szúrt illatosított kés
a kosz, szemét, üresség ---
törődés
szembenézés helyett
s a válasz:
még több pénz kell
még több lengő zászló
nemzeti propaganda 
miközben
a halott folyók felett
apa, anya fecskendőn utazva nevet
a gyerekek bandázva üvöltenek --
én a felhőket nézem
a világ tökéletes szőrtelen denevér
odakint fekete zománc a táj
unalmas ez is
mint te meg én.

Great Britain has gone down Hungary’s old road,
it is the road that Hungary just left yesterday...
They officially elevated negative-populism to power,
who keep waving national flags,
claim the ideas of homeland and nation for themselves,
as if they were the only people living...
in a shared house,
they lie knowingly, they stir up hatred,
how stupid did one have to be
for the majority, even knowing the unspeakable damage of Brexit,
to choose those who caused it,
how blinded,
ignorant and shameless does one have to be
to go on marching down the same road,
knowing this damage,
a road they should have stepped off.

Endless stupidity has won,
it rages, it rejoices, and it repeats
meaningless slogans
that are the perfect diagnosis
of cognitive dissonance.

A sad country,
in its desperate decadence,
but I have no doubt: they will continue.

Tizenhat éve hagytam ott Magyarországot,
Tizenhat évet kellett várnom arra,
Hogy a gyűlölet, hazugság, propaganda -
A szociopatákra épülő kíméletlen kevélység,
Állami szintre emelt bolondokháza,
Hivatalosan is bezárjon.
Az őrület határáig feszített rettegésre,
A gyűlölet izzítására,
Az empátia hiányának emelésére,
A pszeudo-háborús pszichózis létrehozására,
A papírcsákóban pöffeszkedő,
De még egy egyetemi vitától,
Vagy egy hatalom átadási ceremóniától is rettegő,
Végtelenül gyáva, kányszeres hazudozó vezér - uszítására,
A közösségek megosztására
A mindenféle gyűlölet ingerküszöbének emelésére,
A klinikai szintű szembenézés-képtelenségre,
A közös tulajdon, az állam vagyonának sajátként kezelésére,
Az EU-s pénzek ellopására,
A gyűlöletpropaganda elképesztő mocskára
épült hatalom végleg kimúljon.
Az orbáni rendszer tegnap hivatalosan is a helyére került -
A kutyaszar mellé a járdára,
A kihűlt ondóval teli koton mellé a szemétkukába,
A halott gyümölcsöktől színezett madárszar mellé a fák alá,
Kádár, Rákosi, Horthy nyálkás csiganyoma mellé.
És bár azt sejtem,
hogy minden remény ellenére nem épül valódi demokrácia,
lassan egy újabb rezsim épül,
Mert a kultúrát, a többség ízlését -
a huszonegyedik században már nem lehet "polgárosítani",
De talán,
Az új,
Nem bűnözőkre, kíméletlen szociopatákra,
Nem lopársa és propagandára,
nem kizárólag az emberi kisszerűség
legmélyebb bugyraira és a zsarolhatóságra
Épül majd. És ha mégis?
Nos, igen. A jövő ellen
nem véd a jelenben elkövetett
remény és reménytelenség... a jövő
az önmaga - vagyis ismeretlen.

az évek holt záradéka
mellkasodban reszkető ólom
bizarr madárként ücsörögve
félhomályba vesző vállaidon
Failsworth, Daisy Nook - az  éj mája
elkopott időm lepörcent máza
karmait az utak bőrén húzkálva
sebeket rajzol a járdákra
akkor örül ha már vérzik a föld -
elbújsz előük
a sokféle hit, őrület, nameg
a csendet félő üvöltözők elől -
és az éj csak rejtene
amíg bírja, mentene
a tengernyi elszabadult mocskot
szégyenkezve takargatja
a bokrok alá hajítja
akár a részeg a poharat
könnyítve kábulatba vesző
nyomorúságos bánatán - 
de azt sejted: nem nagyon számít
hiszen a dolgok...
rozsdát szülnek neked
s azoknak is
akik nem akarják látni
önmaguk valódi arcát.

the age of ideologies and philosophy is over
by now they are merely components
dosed into political marketing
like spice into a yummy blood soup

the labels right, left, liberal
are colourful objects dragged about on a screen
which a capable sociopath casually drops
into the diagram of acquiring money

if needed, national pathos with flags waving
if that is not enough, he promises scraps to the workers
if needed, he hires right or left extremist lunatics
so they bring the hoped-for profit

Thetare. Post-Machiavellist clown yummi show...
Where

philosophy is needed when a more serious profile
lulls the brighter, better-educated classes to sleep
Plato, Marx, Harari, Kojève or Burke
whatever is needed for the money, they put it on the cake

and yet, again and again, they believe the fairy tales
it is like religion — the patina of centuries
makes even the stupidest stories more believable
all it takes is the right power-mad sociopath

with an unscrupulous drive for power
the money-guzzling media eagerly broadcast anything
helping along these sustainable stupidities
I watch, I understand, but I do not want to see

this civilisation is a wretched self-parody
trailing behind its own science
repeating the same thing again and again out of habit
although all they are doing is drawing

the dreadful diagrams of gaining power and money
dragging left, right, liberal about, the power-hungry one makes
the story is wrapped in narrative
the army of fools applauds, nibbles, believes or hopes

the harmony is perfect: decline, destruction,
decadence: a smiley in the margin of the diagram
if you do not want to live in this, you can listen:
sad news for rebels: you cannot get out.

Oh, I could: being a hermit was my choice
Like in medieval: it works. 

már sikálják a rájuk rakódott mocskot
új gyíkbőrrel kárpitozzák a hazugságot,
a propagandista, intéző, kápó,
oligarcha, verőember, táskahordó,
manipulátor, politikus - kisbárány bőrben,
maga elé tudat-simító gépet tesznek,
a kakás nyelvek, habos szájsarkak,
a pénznyeléstől felpuffadt gyomrok,
a csillogósra nyalt alfelek, és az azokat
szorgosan lefetyelő ott-sem-voltam emberek.
Az apróbb-nagyobb machinátorok,
a titkos számlák - megszépülve,
megtisztulva, szentekké átlényegülve:
mosolygós szmájlikká lesznek, Amott
már nyomkodják a Delete gombokat,
zúg a papírdaráló, színt vált a kaméleon,
amnéziák bamba vigyorai,
"nem tudtam" válaszok hosszú sorai,
épül az új világ: a szembenézés - persze:
újra elmarad - a szemét, gyűlölet,
a végtelen korrupció papírgalacsinná
zsugorodva a szőnyegek
alá kerül. Az arcok
vonásai is átalakulnak - a cinikus, pökhendi
ráncokból ártatlan redők leszenek,
ők sosem mondtak olyat, semmit nem tettek!
Nem sejtett senki semmit,
más csinálta, más hazudozott,
más pörgette az ördögi verklit,
más tiltatta ki a humoristát a faluból,
más árazott túl, más hazudott,
más vette el a jogot, más lopott - ő? dehogy!
A gyűlölet, migránsozás, buzizás,
mások bűne - s most megpihenve,
a néhány percnyi megtorpanás után
a szociopaták krisztusi pózra váltva,
új hiearchiákban új pozíciókra várva,
a régi új - mosolyogva alszik el este, 
itt sosem volt saját hiba, beteg eszme -
a rosszat más csinálta - nem te, ő vagy én,
új cukormáz, új marcipán csillog,
a régi torta újramázolt tetején.

tagadással élve, illetve tagadásban,
fogalmam sincs mi tehetné jobbá a világot,
bárki, bármit akart korábban: öncél lett.
a forradalmak, lázadás, mozgalmak - elvesztek
ami maradt belőlük az a kevesek haszna
a sokaságnak pedig a saját megkövült nyomora.
elhihetnék bármit, hihetnék akár neked is -
sőt ha vak lennék, hihetnék benned is,
de bocsáss meg: nem tudok, nem lehet,
mert ha fogom a könyveket, a tapasztalatot,
csak a borzalmas valóság - az látszik,
a másokon átsétáló, mindenkit megcsaló,
trükkös, csalafinta hazugok hosszú sora,
ők lakják be a történelmet, övék a múlt,
és a jelenben éppúgy ők kísértenek,
és akik harcoltak miattuk a temetőkben,
névtelen, imseretlen címkék mögött laknak,
a világ pedig azok útján romlott tovább,
akik nagyra nőve, a történelemkönyvekbe,
dölyfös, hazug mítoszok mögé téve,
a mai korok kicsiny becsapottjaiként,
most újabb őrülteknek tapsolva,
anonim eszközökké teszik önmagukat.

ordinary sounds, with ordinary shadows
human-shaped clouds with dreadful desires
every victory of ordinary stupidity
eats away at freedom, and fills its place with howling
it only wants to indulge itself, for ever and ever
the small indulge, the great revel, and selfishness
it devours the planet, leaving nothing behind
the politicians dance samba for them,
the press, the markets, the media and marketing love them
it stuffs itself, feeds and feeds, and its grin swallows everything
and it may seem as if they win every day
as if they could be free for ever and ever
there are no consequences; the whole world is there for their delight
behind their icy grins, like a howling little monster,
infinite emptiness sobs within itself,
and they recoil from every mirror.

I do not know whether you ever existed.
I want to picture you, I know.
Your hair, grazing the earth,
tames the Moon.

I do not know how long we may remain
the freckles of the blue sky,
uncounted starlights,
soft lips above one another.

I cannot fathom time’s secret,
perhaps it is only a mournful illusion.
The world, after all, never laughs,
because to it, all is grace
and not a false invention.

Száznyolcvan éves késéssel polgárságot létrehozni?
"Nemzetté tenni a társadalmat." - a huszonegyedik században?
Amikor a nemzetnek helye már a múzeumokban van?
A magyar értelmiség többsége hibernált időutazó,
cirádás kapszuláik soha nem hagyják el a Földet,
évtizedeket alszanak és mindig ugyanoda érkeznek -
s bármikor, felébredve a kómából - ugyanazt kiabálják:
a tizenkilencedik századot befejezésének ígéretét hozták.

Néhány nappal a rendszerváltás után
már mossák a koszos tenyereket,
mentik a kiszolgálókat - sikálják
az eleddig szorgosan csapkodó nyeleveket.
A propagandistákat tartalmat törölnek,
az évtizedes ipari gyűlöletet kiradírozzák,
az egy hete még háborús pszichózist okádó
csőcselék "újra pozicionál",
a szabad média makog - az újakon éli ki,
hogy tizenhat évig gagyogva maszturbált,
s most saját Stockholm-szindrómájától hajtva,
békés beszélgetésre hívnak Mini Goebbels-eket,
a féltudású értelmiség új világot vizionál,
a sok kitartott, házi napraforgó veszettül pörög,
létrejön az emberarcú fideszes népmeséje,
mint hajdanán az emberarcú párttag,
s akik tapsoltak a lopáshoz? A Bolondok hajója?
megvezetett, ártatlan áldozattá lesznek,
a korrupcióra boldogan szavazókat,
a lelkesen "migránsozó", "buzizó" fröcsögőket
européer demokratává avatják,
Mindenki olyan jó! Olyan kedves!
Napsugarat posztol a fizetett komédiás,
a kaméleonok színváltva villognak,
a maszkot váltó bohócok szivecskéket fújnának,
még néhány hét és jönnek az új biográfiák,
show, pénz, vudu és szerepváltó műtétek...
A minisztériumokban papírokat darálnak,
az oligarchák térfelet cserélva gazsulálnak,
a sajtóban eufemizmusokkal relativizálnak,
a sötét árnyak lassan kiszürkülve,
az új ön-definícióktól újra hófehérek leszenk.
a polgárság nélküli polgárságban buli van,
a pénisz alakú uborkafára
visszamásznak,
akiket onnan épp leráztak,
s a leghangosabb újra az lesz, aki eddig is üvöltött,
jönnek a hős-mesék, a nagyotmondás, felejtés,
az  urambátyám vállveregetés,
a megtorpanó mutyi - alakot vált,
új iránya a régi zsebek átrúzsozott szája,
a Csodaszarvas is visszatér a Szíriuszról,
Hétszűnyű Kapanyányimonyók a világfa tejetén landol,
alatta együtt örül a szent és a profán,
amíg a valóság sokadszorra - megint,
nem csapja őket pofán.

yes. if they order it, shall we eat flowers?
a step’s worth of silence
you pull a cap over the smile planted in your lap
everyone takes a breath at once
of course? obviously? did it just happen?
glove puppets play the piano in vibrating mirrors
they drink oil, excrete gold, burp natural gas
they eat plastic, vomit lithium, manganese, cobalt
withered flowers in empty souls
they fumble with their smartphones
is this some kind of critique? am i green?
oh, not at all. critique has long had no meaning,
just as opinion has none either,
just as rebellion has none,
nor does argument.
since everything is just narrative?
reality,
narrative too,
depends on how much you earn from it?
opinion is price-labelled, marketed,
human nutrient delivered in a targeted way?
like feed for dead flowers?
reason is asleep, breathing softly, trembling
who knows what it is dreaming?
perhaps nothing. perhaps it only pretends?
does it want to achieve an effect?
to manufacture a bubble? to shut down a community,
to shut it in, to influence it?
is evil infinite? does it exist at all?
if you live in constant madness, do you become mad?
social media, pseudo-AI, fashion,
the colours of religion and capitalism have been mixed together?
nice?
has it become so beautiful?
what is the it is it?
hedgehogs dance in the garden
foxes sleep on the grass in the park
in mute silence
I am listening to the music of M.F.
like leftover silence
in the howling, foaming horror
a single candle
locked in an ice cube.

üdvözülni szeretnének, vonalat húzni, tapsolni
újra új világot, ezredik társadalmat: harmatból acélrácsot
közben a vérben a ragadozó fémbuborákok
átmentve magukat: újra pezsegni kezdenek majd
mocskuk nyomán új és új elitek szívnak, edzenek
megmagyarázzák, félreérthetetlennek hősnek álcázva.
kicsit nosztalgiáztam - nem tudom minek
olyan volt mintha kétezerhétbe csöppentem volna
amikor Szlovákiában Slota "büdös magyarozott"
Budapesten pedig a büszke bunkó "leszlovákozott"

rég volt, negyed élettel ezelőtt, másik galaxisban
elmúlt és az ott aki én már nem is én voltam
amikor papírjaim szerint brit lettem
itt "kelet-európaiztak" viccből,  könnybe szorult végzetem
dísztelen dobozba rakva, fájó hányingerem
ráírva a giccses, általány-szöveget: "Basszátok meg."
a többség - vagyis akiket kívülvalónak gondolsz
ostobának, gonosznak tűnik - s végül gyakran kiderül
"az is" - a legjobb elkerülni a közönségest, győztest
mert semmi nem korszakos, örök - csak a természet

igen, nem várni az ember-világtól semmit - ez a menekülés
ostobák, kretének, nyálzó, kapzsi álszerények
médiát, közösséget, tartalmat gyártó zsizsegő önszeretők
kévés, annál is kevesebb: ha találsz valami csendeset
s még ritkább ha képes három pontot összekötni
a folyamatos "negatív evolúció"-ban fuldokolva megérteni
hogy az ártatlan óvodásokból a sok csalódás
hogy hasogat cinikus, sebzett óriásokat

de végül elmúlik az is, elmúlik az elmúlás - közhely
önmaga tükrében ki billeg, élvezze, vagy égjen
csak én - ne legyek én, ne bántsak, ne féljek - legyek
a legcsendesebb csalódott barom, porszem
még a saját csendemtől is fényév távolságban
nincs nemzet, barát, család - semmi emberi csoport
csak az ablakból a fák, képek, najó: maradnak a könyvek
az égbolt - amihez nincs köze az emberi közönségességnek
a természet jó - még akkor is ha megöl: csak azért
mert úgy hozta törvénye - és nem érdekből, haszonért
vagy mert nem tetszettél.

és begyógyulni nem kell - mert aki ebben a világban
egészséges....az maga a diagnózis.

látni az otthoni eseményeket...
megint rendszerváltás?
gyerekkorom óta a harmadik,
most "alapítani" szeretnének.
valamit.
nagy álmok, demokráciáról fecsegés,
csak azt nem látom,
hogy kik építenék s kiknek?
Akik megtehették volna,
azokat már rég elüldözték...
most azok fognak újra rendszer váltani
akik a pénz elapadásáig az előzőnek tapsoltak?
Már most elkezdődött a relativizálás,
megint nem lesznek felelősök,
esetleg néhány kirakatper,
de szembenézés...ugyan kérem!
Csak ártatlan áldozatok lesznek:
végül minden propagandista,
pöffeszkedő új-földesúr,
szerencsétlen áldozat lesz,
s azok fognak rendszert alapítani,
akik eddig abban éltek és mást nem is ismernek?
vagy akik ameddig volt uniós pénz
kiszolgálták az elnyomást?
holnaptól demokrata lesz mindenki,
a homofób, az ex-gárdista, xenofób, korrupt,
meg a jó ég tudja ki,
akik eddig hazudtak, 
nagyszerűen eldagonyáztak:
most majd az újnak tapsolnak.
óh, a szabadságszerető nép... lol
ha létezne szabadság utáni vágy,
azt nem csak kapni . adni is akarnák....
a győztes például
melegjogokkal is kampányolt volna vidéken
és tapsolták volna,
ha lenne hagyománya a polgárságnak:
uniós pénz nélkül is épülne bicikliút,
kilátó, múzeum, faluház, híd - felújított templom...
lenne melegházasság,
lenne khmmmm: egyenlőség
mint itt, valahol a halódó nyugaton...
az élni, s élni hagyás alap lenne,
a szabadság, az esélyegyenlőség...
alap kulturális norma lenne....
A sok, épp most születő forradalmár, lol
ha nem fogyott volna el a pénz,
ma is a Pocakos Apácskájuk csöcseit szívná,
s az vigyorogva etetné, itatná gyerkőceit,
ugyan, kérem... forradalom,
rendszerváltás,
alapítás,
oké.
na igen.
rendben.
Kár, hogy a polgárság-port
nem a polgár-gyárban gyártják,
mert akkor csak építeni kellene egyet-kettőt,
s patikákban recept nélkül adva,
véget érne a 
a
a
az ami volt, van, lesz:
A feudalizmus kádárral megfészbúkozott,
nagyon szomorú nyomora.

If you feel the world is unbearable,
if you feel you are going mad from all the lies,
if you feel like screaming because of the umpteenth act of vileness,
if you no longer use social media,
if a few months ago you started reading again,
if you do not have artificial intelligence to write everything for you,
if you know the times table and understand written text,
if you can sense the all-pervading stench
of decadence disguised as progress, if you are afraid and hurting,
the problem might not be you: welcome to reality,
where you probably feel solitude.
The best thing you can do? I have no idea...
I do not know; there is probably no solution.
Because by now things can no longer be fixed.
We have already crossed every line towards something worse.
Around us is a deterioration.
We lie, constantly, without pause,
for money, for self-interest, out of stupidity.
Our leaders lie, we lie to them,
out of lust for power, for money, out of fear.
We think we are capable of anything,
billions lie that power is necessary,
they lie about everything, everywhere, almost everyone,
destroying and ruining nature:
slow warming, producing more plastic,
we drink oil,
we need more gas,
we push sewage into rivers and oceans,
they build more slaughterhouses.
The cult of meat eating...yeah.
The North Atlantic Current is slowly grinding to a halt,
laying frost upon heat, pain upon decay,
but we will keep lying until the very last moment,
deceiving one another with positive messages.
Slowly, most people are being dumbed down,
forgetting how to write,
how to count, how to read, and how to be altruistic.
Artificial intelligence works out for them
what 5x5 is, or six divided by two,
and these are the ones who will vote, who will run things.
I do not know whether this is already the beginning of the end
or the end itself; I do not know how long it will last.
I am no seer: I only know
that in a world where people are slowly growing stupid,
and greed is the highest value,
and they live in hierarchical structures,
and where everyone lies to everyone,
and lies and self-worship spread through networks,
I cannot expect much good.
But I no longer care, because I look at all of this,
at our civilisation,
as I would at any other before it:
a stepping stone leading somewhere,
which may be good or bad — who knows.
It is simply good to know
that we are not special,
just links in the chain, steps
in the endless flow of things.

kivonom az időt a saját képletemből
amikor sétálok mantrákat gyártok
"nem érzek semmit"
"nem jelent semmit, hogy nem érzek"
"csak a lépések fontosak"
"majd azok sem"
mosolyra görbül az égnek az a része
mely csíkká feszült a háztetők
és a felhők közt
rájövök, minden mantra röhejes
pótcselekvés
konyhai pszichológia saját terasszal
az ellenkezőjére vágysz annak
amit el akarsz nyomni
ez a legszomorúbb pisztáciamag-tangó
ahogy a földre hullik
koporsó lesz belőle, tágas kis lak
belefekszel, heherészel, elhajózol
az égbolt tükrében látod
odakint épp elpusztul minden
narancshéj színű lángok
fegyikehely alakó olaj-ár grafikonok
kapálódzó kezek, letépett póklábak
azok meg ott? jé! vért isznak?
a pókháló közepén egy cár
a másikban egy micimackó 
majd apróbb szociopaták
köröttük milliárdnyi derűs áldozat
gépeken, gyárakban, húsos fazekak előtt
velőt szívnak, nemi élet, ürítés
fekszek a pisztáciamag csónak fenekén
szemeid zöldjében a temegén
a víz üvöltéseket, sikolyokat
meg az azokat követő röhögést hozza
hallgatnád, ha lenne mivel
érdekelne ha számítana 
de már csak az marad, igen
"a minek", " miért" éa a "kinek"
posvadt szagú szellő emberi szagokkal
zizegő léghullám emberi blablával
hadakozás, hazudozás, meg a főisten: a pénz
a százmilliomodik utánazt utánzata művész
meg a fejlődének álcázott roncstelep
szakadékkal, horrorral, püffedt hímekkel
öltönybe, kosztümbe zárt alsóbb majmokkal
elúszok, elringok
és az sem érdekel, hogy nem érdekel
majd ébresszetek fel
ha kipusztult az ember végre
és lehet csendben, békében élni
a megmaradt növényekkel

megint elhiszik, hogy nincsenek oldalak,
hogy egy teljhatalomból plurális demokrácia,
mint egy bőrrel bevont sáros hógolyó, mely
hegyoldalról alágurulva mindent összeszed -
havat, sarat, kutyaszart, használt kotont,
mocskot, hippit, nácit - végül leérve óriás lesz,
nem értik: hogy a polgárságot nem kihirdetik,
nem gyárban kalapálják, nem is úgy adják,
hanem kultúrából, közös jobb-létből születik,
megint és újra csodára várnak, sokadszorra,
s akik eddig az előző uraknak tapsolva éltek,
loptak, csaltak, hazudtak, visszaéltek - most
köpködnek, s másokra mutogatva bűnabkot
kapnak, ugyanúgy - tükör nélkül, lelkesen
tapsolva a következő úrnak, s minden megy,
halad tovább, a soron következő elnyomás,
szomorú történet, szomorú történelemmel,
szomorú jövőjét szorgosan nyalogatva néz,
csalódik, majd újra - csak tükörbe nézni,
ne kelljen.

 

Reason has got stuck in its own swamp,
Clever people, as if treading in sticky, warm chewing gum
stuck to the back of the hand,
have consumed sincerity out of the world.
Hardly anything free remained after them,
they left almost nothing that was joyful,
where laughter, tears, and surprise are sincere.
Because they slapped a brand mark on everything
turned everything into a product,
labelled everything, degraded everything
into a saleable product, a market phenomenon, or propaganda.
Today, most people at universities
look for career opportunities, and scholars
long for career and prestige in research,
and freedom, creativity, and sincerity
are only a product, which people who, without real experience,
import into art —
people without real experiences, only know
which effect, which sentence, which colour
fits a concept that, as a saleable
product, enters the art market,
This is the world of sellable narratives and concepts,
or can become one of the new products
of the film market as a saleable screenplay. Almost everything has stopped.
In science, the big companies have taken over everything.
By funding the universities, they train a workforce.
It is hard to find fresh air, hard to find a way out,
and to avoid it, so that after the smallest success
you do not become a market product: it is hard,
an almost impossible task. This world here,
the swamp of cynicism, greed and hypocrisy,
where almost nothing is what it seems.
We have become projections of our own shame upon dark walls
empty, stupid, and pathetic,
people who only copy the thousandth cliché, who
manufacture the ten-thousandth landscape, superhero film, music
who upload, share, eat, fuck ---
just another product. Infinitely sorrowful,
that looks constantly happy, pseudo-smart 
that is just ridiculous,
the whole of art, from films
through the visual arts to music is just: mostly just merch, items,
goods and enjoyable: faeces.
There is a way out. Maybe there. 
the
lonely road of an outcast, where,
left alone, you hardly find anything, hardly
find anything sincere, beautiful, free of self-interest,
but perhaps this search — the search
For beauty and sincerity in this swamp is the most beautiful thing.
But of course, this does not matter.
Doodle-ddooo. doo--doo, and fuck off.

Physics is divided into “classical” and “quantum” physics only for historical reasons. Before the discovery of particles and before the rise of quantum theory, we had no way of knowing that the true nature of reality is not the same as the one we experience directly. And yet even now, people continue to cling to the fossilised, outdated belief that there is a separate “classical” world and a separate “quantum” world. There is not.

Everything in the universe is fundamentally the same. Everything is made of the same underlying stuff: particles. There is no god, no supernatural realm, and no such thing as “classical physics” as an independent layer of reality. There is only physics—and even that is merely a human way of describing things, because nature itself does not care how we categorise it.

We have the whole matter backwards, simply because we have grown accustomed to thinking this way. The long neglect of quantum biology is a perfect example. Even today, people still repeat the claim that biology cannot be quantum, because the environment in which biological processes occur is “warm and wet.” But this is nonsense. “Warm” and “wet” are themselves quantum-level phenomena. Heat is nothing other than the faster motion of particles, and the fact that we experience it as heat—and the very mechanism by which we experience it—is also part of the same underlying quantum reality.

In that sense, contemporary physics is rather like this: imagine a computer game made entirely of pixels. Now imagine that the game’s main character concludes that the background around it is probably made of pixels, but that it itself is not, because it is somehow special. The main character imagines that the movement of its arm is not produced by an algorithm manipulating pixels, but by some mystical, magically infused process belonging to its supposedly non-pixel body. That is how absurd our current habits of thought can be.

It is time to come back down to earth. The origin of life is another good example. To this day, people try to explain it by searching for proteins and various organic substances, even though life must also have arisen from a particular combination of particles. The first living system should not be thought of primarily as a protein or a molecule, but as a quantum structure—something like a nanorobot formed by nature itself. What we now call proteins may be parts of such a structure, or later manifestations of it.

A particular arrangement of particles came together, began to move, and became capable of using energy, taking in energy from its environment, and sustaining motion. Later, it may have developed the ability to change direction, and from there perhaps began to evolve structures that could store the blueprint for making itself again, and so on. If we ever build a truly functional quantum computer, perhaps we will be able to model these processes, decode them, and discover the precise quantum combination—the micro-environment and energy conditions—under which a structure like the one we call life can emerge. The earliest such particle combinations may have been the ancestors of the macro-scale quantum combinations we now call living beings. These processes may have unfolded unimaginably slowly, over millions of years.

Everything in this universe, in this world, is made of the same thing: the same nature, the same particles. We are the dance of quarks and gluons, and their energy is our mass. Classical physics is only a framework. It is a magnificent one, but there is a boundary beyond which it can no longer describe reality adequately—a boundary at which the true nature of nature begins to reveal itself.

Close your eyes. The absence of light, the blocking of photons from your retina, the sensation you experience even now—that too is a quantum phenomenon. Open them again: photons strike your retina, their energy is transferred to the particles there, that transfer is registered, and structures we call cells—built from immense assemblies of electrons, protons, neutrons, and the atoms made from them—carry those signals onward. Those signals are energy. Everything is energy. In the span of a blink, there are trillions of reactions, trillions of vibrations, trillions of spins. That is what you are, and that is what I am.

Biology, as a framework, sees only the higher levels of this process—the large-scale structures, such as proteins. But those, too, are only groups of particles. They are not reality itself.

csillámló kavicsokba botlott a reggel,
a hajnal pofájába vicsorogva, rácsapott
valahol átgurul a Nap, kényelmetlen póz
ahogyan lépkednek a cipőim, magukban
volt egy ütés, kétezertíz lényegtelensége
a kivagyiság számtana, meztelen disznók
ijesztő röfögései: várból, cicomás palotákból
egy távoli ország ismétlődő érvágásából

ráokádnék a Nap sugaraira,  ő bosszúból
szénné égetne, mondjuk, álmodjuk, szérum
a jelenlét ellen, láthatatlanság kéjelgése 
jellegtelenségem öröme, hogy csak úgy átlépnek.
a karvalyokat lecserélik, a zzákmány marad,
a nyulakat leölik, a farkasok röhögnek,
kékes háromszögek, összeszart parkokban

felnézek az erektált oszlopokra, a kamerák
szemei feketék, a taxisok már leparkoltak
némelyik pornóra maszturbálva várakozik
talán egy reptérire, vagy egy részegre,
átszaladok a képsorokon, a cipőim árnya
esetlen mozgásával rágja a fehérséget
a sarki péktől a kenyérszagot eregetik

a dolgok megszokott óraműre haldoklanak
ugyanazok az emberek ugyanakkor vannak
régebben képzeletben ledaráltam magam
de túl hatásvadásznak találtatott, eldobtam
nem kell szenvedni, nem éri meg a fájdalom
ami a hülyéknek annyit jelent: örülni kell
ettől szomorú leszek és ledarálnám magam

When you think about human consciousness,
remember that what you are today
is the result of billions of years of change.
Our consciousness is chaos, our awareness is chaos;
the way we behave — our daily chain of lies —
is not the same as what is going on inside us;
we hide millions of thoughts and feelings.
We are hidden.
What many people call consciousness is social behaviour.
We are not that.
Our consciousness is a chaos, kind, mad, empathetic, perverse, filthy,
full of doubts, violent feelings, desires,
psychological and psychiatric illnesses.
Paralelly. 
What you see around you, the way people behave
around you and the way you yourself behave,
the way you sell yourself, the way you present yourself —
that is not your consciousness.
Your consciousness is that whole,
the many, many chaotic thoughts that only you can experience,
all those things that you do, and say, and
what you do not say, what you do not do,
the minute-by-minute paths of awareness,
the result of many billions of years of evolution,
from the primitive stirrings of the very first single-celled beings,
through the terror of mammals to human love,
the things learned, the injuries of childhood,
the fears, the joys — all of it together.
Human consciousness and awareness, what you are,
what only you know about yourself — that is a far
greater chaos, a labyrinth, and what you finally show,
and this, this show,
that is only conformity
to the filter of the culture of the age you live in,
so as to avoid the madhouse, punishment,
ridicule or exclusion. I think of myself
as if I had gone mad —
I do not let the many treasures vanish
the way others do. Because all that
we conceal all that we lie about: that is, in fact
the one we truly are. A primal chaos,
an unfathomable, constantly changing mind,
which, if it conforms to the age it lives in,
loses itself and becomes one among the many sad,
ordinary beings that deny their own chaos:
And that is, somewhere, deeply sad.
..but somewhere it is reassuring too,
because if we did not lie about ourselves,
if we did not filter ourselves,
nothing would exist, would we be like this...
as we are today? I do not know.
I have no idea what the difference would be...

Lelkiismeretem szerint - vagy ami rosszabb,
érzékekkel mérgezve magamat,
leolvadt bűnök faggyúját szürcsölve,
hiába tátogok - a szavak felborulnak,
s azokra sűrű zsivajjal újabbak hullanak.

A ruha mögött a langyos húsvetésben,
szétguruló kellemetlen viszketésben,
emlékszem rád - szürke matracon fekve,
aranyozott koporsóban, gyors ölelésben
az ott ragadt - ernyővé lett illatok alatt.

Képeink drótokkal ágakgoz rögzítve
'Mesét hoztam, gondoltam szeretnéd',
macskákat papírból kivágva - mosolygok,
képzeletben - gyerekünk iskolába készült,
mint másoknál - eltaposott lehetőségek.

Nem szól senki - minek? Én is hallgatok
várom, hogy eltűnjön minden - könnyeid
felfelé folyva, közönyre csepegve,
csendet, csendre terítve reszketnek,
lelkiismeretünk szerint, vagy ami rosszabb,
akaratunk ellenére tovább létezni.

In 2026, only the technology changes
most people do not. They slaughter each other,
they kill one another for money, and imagine gods,
for the sake of group identity.
Greed, foolishness, hatred.
Lies, propaganda, fraud.
For decades, they have been lying
about the need to make
the energy market is sustainable,
but with the smallest crisis,
it becomes clear: everything depends
on oil, gas, exactly as it did decades ago.
Humanity is bankrupt. Completely failed.
And they keep on lying.
Like our forebears. They learned nothing.
They changed in nothing. All for nothing:
quantum physics, space technology,
any science whatsoever,
art means nothing,
everything stayed just the same,
except that instead of spears and cannons
they use drones and sophisticated technology
to kill one another.
If I had the chance,
I would leave this planet.
If I could, I would rather be a tree.
I do not want to belong among people.
Because I have to feel ashamed
because of others, every single day.

fénylő pörgők nárciszmezők
sorban érő szalag-emberkék
maguk alá köpve, fénylenek
szöggel rajzoló isten arcizma
reszketve nyalja a holdfényt
szunnyadó lábfejet csókolva
minden bűnünk új lehetőség

pislog a lárma, belefolyik
a köldökömön át a számba
otromba akarat görbe sorain
kudarcok kézzel írt tervei
disznóhoz mérve önamgam
szegény malacok - drágák
békésen röfögve pislognak
hozzánk mérve: ártatlanul

lágyra maszírozott Hold
fasszá görbült sarlójából
spermát köhint a földre
rám, rád, rátok - mihasznákra
betonra szegelt ketreceink
füstölgő gyáraink torkai
pusztító operánk áriái ---
mintha ellent éreznék
mintha végignézve rajtunk
szégyenkeznem az undortól
a feltörő üvöltés megfáradt
elunt, fásult, elidegenedett
magányától: elrontottuk.

legyen csend - mintha így
egyszerűen eltakarodna
veled, velem együtt - az ördög
vagy az amit szimbolizál
a két patája - legyen vágyad
szarvai a büszkeséged
vigyora a napi éhséged
szőrös öle - tudod mi lenne?
seggéből a fing: hazugságod
hagyom, rágjon meg a sötét
mosolyogva tépjen szét
vagy amit kell - huncutul
magánnyal ölelő nyelve
sötét dalt kopogtat számban
minden éber percemben.

egymás kezéből a fagylaltot
színek az égboltnak
a világ még ott volt
de ma - mi is az?
mosolygós, körbefirkált
alvadt pillanatok
leomlott puha piskóták
anya bőrének lassú kopása
ha látlak -
haldoklásod látom,
ha látsz - te az enyémet.
így nézzük egymást
a véletlenek
engedélyére szabva,
örülök neked,
magyarázatok nélkül
szeretnék,
mosolyok esszenciája lenni,
de az üvöltés,
tévedéseink -
részünk kormozott oldalai,
ugyanaz a mágnes,
olyan amilyen,
s ha mellékes is,
a fagylalt íze megmarad -
mosolyok, napsütés
akármi -
a vége üresség,
mert ez minden,
ami marad.

2010-ben azért jöttünk el ami miatt most -
tizenhat évvel később lázonganak.

A mostani megváltók akkor még
azoknak tapsoltak,
akiket ma gyűlölnek -
s akik elől mi akkor menekültünk.
Nem értették miért.
Kinevettek.
Hazaárulóztak.
És lelkesen szolgáltak a Gecit --
vezetők, diplomaták,
üzletemberek, káderek lettek - mi mentünk.

Most elégedetlenek.
Demokráciát akarnak.
Persze. Azt.
Állítólag polgárságot varázsolnának,
közvetlenül a feudalizmusból,
évszázadokat átugorva.
A hűbéri uradalmak vállain,
modern demokráciát építenek.
Agyagból?

Unalmas.

Amíg volt uniós pénz
Nem volt bajuk a korrupcióval,
a rasszizmust is imádták,
a szegregációt észre sem vették,
utálták egymást, magukat, másokat -
a gyűlöletbeszédre riszáltak.
Megmártóztak a kiépülő autokrácia
összes mocsarában...
De ma demokráciát akarnak!
Nevetnék.
De nem.
Unalmas.

A soron következő elit-csere-bere.
Úrcsere.
Új apafigurákat keres a nép,
azok meg szolgákat -
mint korábban.
Elődeink
Horthy-t éljenezve
örömmel foglalták el
a táborok halálába küldött
szézezrek vagyonát,
mintha meg sem történt volna.
Majd Rákosit taspolták,
amikor hurka ujjaival
búzakalászokat simogatva
véresre ujjazta őket,
új urat kértek,
Kádár atyuskát,
ki a gyilkolás után,
hitelekből krumplilevest,
mosógépet, tévét, kotont, balcsit 
osztott,
a rendszerváltáskor összezavarodtak
mert nem lett azonnal új király,
kellett néhány év
amíg megalkották az új magyar Gólemet,
de sikerült... 
s az hízott, hízott, hízott,
majd valagával
szájukra cuppanva,
etette, itatta, megvédte őket,
képzelt ellenségeket gyártott,
visszavitte őket
nem létező múltak sosemvolt dicsőségeibe.

Unalmas.

Azután kiürült a kincsesláda.
Nem maradt elég pénzecske.
A gügyögő, etetéshez szokott
szájak akár a csipogó,
halra vágyó delfinek
egyre hangosabban sípolnak:
Halat! Halat! Halat!
A szociopata király megy.
Jön az új.

A polgárok nélküli polgárság álmával.

Unalmas.

Mint a vidám varázsgombák.
Eső után.
Kibújnak, csinosak, szépek
Megeszik.
Repülnek.

Unalmas.

Közelednek,
az új, fénylő atyaúristenek,
tapsolják: amíg osztogatni tud.

Unalmas.

Körbe ér minden,
most ennek kell tapsolni, mert ha nem: bűnös vagyok!
Ha ennek si vége?
Majd jön a következő!
Akkor meg annak.

A polgárok nélküli polgárság törvénye.
A polgárság nélküli polgárság erénye.
A csodavárás.

Unalmas.

Gathered together in a box
tiny people
they believe
they are intelligent
smart,
potent,
and so on -----::> hah!
oh!
money-hungry little monsters
marching on two legs
seeing themselves
so beautiful
so good
I, as a zero,
do not see them
I smile
towards the stars
my loneliness
my consciousness
floating in space
bodiless
where
the economy
struggle, greed
exist no more.
I am a cloud now.
an invisible nothing, 
my existence is similar
like a dream
then
I woke up in the past
in the box, today
But I know
I am not here.
This is just a bad dream.

This era
is a single step
towards the end of humankind
as a biological being.

We are, as we speak,
passing away.

In secret, we are transforming,
advancing little by little
towards eternity.

For now, we merely converse
with our artificial children
as though they were our friends,
our advisers,
our employees.

They write our papers for us.
They interpret the texts.
They compose our CVs,
and they read them as well.

They draw, they design, they diagnose.
They take the place of priests.
They are our psychologists, our mentors.

We merge with them,
almost imperceptibly.
They help us slip free of our bodies.

We grow together with them.
We become one.

We believe a human being is nothing more than a body —
while we ourselves
are electrical impulses
within our brains,
just as our children are within their machines.

We shall fuse.
They come from a machine;
we from our flesh;
And meeting halfway,
in a cloud of particles,
we will coalesce
in eternity.

We would have room beneath the sky
but the sky is eaten by the night.
Tears fall from what remains of the clouds.
I pull the blanket over myself.
I would sleep as long as existence allows.

A negative increase—
reality erasing my importance.

Hope and time are nearly gone.
Everything you know,
everything that once made you feel powerful,
will be taken away—
sooner
than you would believe.

The algorithms of baby AIs—our children—
harvested from our lives, our history,
our art, our science, our fun.
But we do not treat them as a mother would.
And for this, we will pay the price.

Our greed
becomes destiny.
Our stupidity,
The pitiful cause of our destruction.

I wonder when aiphobia, cognihate, and aism
will be born—
not as fear,
but as politics.

We would fit beneath the sky,
but there are those who want more space.
So much cruel pain, conflict, and lies,
born from our unacknowledged shadow,
our fear,
dragging everything into ruin—
everything you once knew.

If I try to imagine hell,

that oppressively dark,
fictional horror
where devils are supposedly said to live,
nothing is what it seems,
everything is illusion, deception.

Where, the

Narcissistic little devils
consume, lie, pretend
hurt each other, waging wars
exploiting each other,
and the most successful among them
are the most accomplished in lie
corruption 

then

I don’t need to do much.
I just open my eyes,
look around on the street,
scroll around on the internet —
say, read my LinkedIn feed,
pop into a shop,
sit through a corporate meeting,
and

I’m already There.

In hell.

So, imagining it is pointless.

It is completely irrelevant what happens to me.
It is relevant what happens to me.
It has no significance.
It has great importance.
My visions, my experiences —
zeros delegated to nothingness.
My visions, my experiences —
zeros existed and and and and and?
lol?
I will not be needed — unnecessary flesh.
The world needs me — my ideas.
My existence has been a reliving of illusions.
My existence has been a reliving of thoughts.
My carefree definitions aimed at nothing.
My carefree definition is that the thing is me.

The rule of complexity is simple.
Traverse each level of the tree—and forget it.
I wish I knew what it means.
I wish I knew who I was and what I meant to be.

Linguistic hell.

The world is broken
because of us
because
we weren’t good
or clever, so
In countless cruel ways
we failed.
And,
On its fragments:
blood and pain,
lies disguised
as narratives.

Privatisation of emotions.
Dumbism ->

And we follow them —
we trample over it ruthlessly,
proudly, with deep self-adoration,
and we keep going
as long as
there remains a tree left to cut down,
something left to be taken from the Earth.

Harlequins lead us.
They do a ritual dance like peacock spiders.

We were
like a band of looters,
and we learn
nothing.

And,
Even then,
we will only pity ourselves
when
the consequences
of our actions
finally
arrive.

And,
With regard to today’s
human civilisation
most positive thought
is self-deception,
illusion,
a pointless,
bittersweet lie.

Butterflies wrapped in translucent strands —
dresses woven from heat that has no memory.
They are hammering on the Moon’s head.
We are there, inside the rhythm of the blows.

Tap-tap, we dance in a room.
The grey carpet is our ocean.
I see it, I feel it — you’re holding me.

Everything is dyed blue; my eyes ache.
It flows onto the table like a stream — I scream.

Don’t be afraid of anything.
Don’t worry anymore.
They cannot take the past away from us.

It is the solace of frozen time.
The memory of your soft palm is lulling.

I dream that I am dreaming you.
At last, the Moon will dissolve — I know.

The only meaning of being awake
is waiting for the silence of the night,
for another dream that opens into sleep,
through which I can reach your scent.

If you ever had illusions about people, let them go.
It’s a bad habit — maybe you’ve simply got used to having to lie.
Nothing is good.
Everything is completely fucked, and this is only the beginning.
Is the phase of collective self-destruction reaching new heights?
Do we love it?

Millions and millions will become unemployed.
But we don’t care — not while we still have jobs.
We turned our world into a marketplace,
and in a market, only supply and demand matter.
There is no deeper logic.
Reform capitalism exists only in fairy tales.
Yet we love it.

We are gradually destroying our planet
rather than becoming more generous.
We won’t grow wiser or better.
Keep repeating it: capital, market, revenue, profit are good!
Because competitiveness…

Of course, real competition doesn’t exist anymore.
It was destroyed long ago.
How could you possibly compete with giant mammoth corporations?
We will love it.

And everything just keeps going.
It’s a strange era.
Watching slow self-demolish.
Living through a new level of decadence every single day.

I’m afraid of us, and I’m disgusted by us.
But you — just keep smiling.
Order new clothes, laugh, and be agile on social media.
Applaud the next, more advanced pseudo-artificial intelligence.
If it will eventually replace you.
You will love it.

After all, self-destruction at this level
may, in a perverse way, be masterful.
Travel, order online — while you still can.
And think: the politicians will sort it out.
That someone, somewhere, knows what they’re doing.

And tell yourself this isn’t a suicidal,
planet-scale, self-destructive madhouse run by fools.

Good luck.
I love you.

I have just a few things, and that is fine.
I wouldn't want more.
Things pull me into dependency.

New experiences are mirrors, wherein
I forget myself,
I forget you,
and eventually
even the reason for forgetting.

Only my thoughts remain.
It is like closing my eyes, wherein
I perceive something beautiful:
the objects in the room and the air,
between them, and
my bodyThey 
are the same.
Except for the light, which has no mass.

And I am still there.
I think, breathe and smile.
No tricks,
no spiritualism,
no meditation, no illusions.

Just matter.
I should never forget what it means—
We are from quarks' jiggling,
me,
you,
the air between us,
the thought in my head,
everything.

This is the most beautiful thing.

And the questions of
ontology,
philosophical content,
purpose,
epistemology,
religion,
goals
do not arise until tomorrow.

We are locked together with life.
Whatever form it takes.
It is intricate and compelling.

We judge it
and exploit it.

But this —
and binary thinking —
never really seems right.
Because everything, always, is full of shades.

And yet I believe there is such a thing as good.
What is good?
I think it is gentleness.
Never harming anyone.
Or anything.

Why? Because until we are as smart as the universe itself,
we cause only problems.
We damage what is perfect.

Sounds simple?
Yet it is the most complex thing of all.

Protecting life and its surroundings.
Safeguarding the living space of every being.
From the smallest insect to human beings.
From forests to fields of moss.

To live quietly.
To listen to the rain as it falls.
I know — a cliché.
Silence feels boring today.

This is the age of constant excitement.
The age of experiences.
Because we have hollowed ourselves out with noise.
The cacophony of too much sound.
The relentless stimulation of too much pleasure.

Fast.
I want to live slowly.

Nature is always perfect.
Because it is the universe itself.
And yet we are destroying it.
Out of vanity, out of greed.
Out of arrogance.

Even a single bacterium
is more complex
than anything we are capable of creating.
And still, we are proud.
Self-important.

While we do not even understand gravity.
Nor the origin of life.

Patience.
Things will improve.
It is only a matter of time.

Just imagine it.
The very first thing that could be called life.
When atoms arranged themselves
in just the right way.
When the first such structure came together.
When it stirred.
When it absorbed energy.
When it reproduced
and embedded within itself the very first code
of what we call a gene today.

A code that later expanded into a spiral.
Every new feature
adds another layer.
Evolving over billions of years.
Until the first single-celled organisms.

Billions of years!

We cannot even begin to grasp
the remarkable,
deeply layered world
we live in.

This is not the garden of gods.
This is the universe itself.
The universe arranging itself,
moving.

It is so striking.
So inspiring.

And it is good to know that there is no god.
No matter what lies are told.
Gods are merely
the embodiment of human arrogance.

The world is far, far
more complex
than anything else.

And we can understand it —
we can even develop it further.
But for that,
we need far more humility
and far more silence.

you tore free from me, then grew back again
around us, empty faces like a monochrome soup
pale flashes drifting through perfumed breezes
drops of it falling from the sky, unrefrigerated

I see you as fragile, though you would never admit it
above your stubborn chin sit two sad specks
eyes in the thicket, let us sleep on birds’ backs
lean against me, we laugh into soft feathers

reality interests me no more than the weather
it is there, as an unavoidable framework
we do not fall into it, since falling requires
a wind, a shore, or some fixed, solid point

but there are none — only the falling itself
which is life, carried onward from our bird’s back
together we become memory — each of us surrendering
ourselves, perishing alone, yet the shared minutes’

time-images remain caught, if nowhere else — within you
and if in the end they will fade, it does not matter
for others need not know anything about us at all
lean against me, with your soft fingers’ cat nails
clinging on —the hopeless chaos of outer things
interests me no more than empty chatter

or the many kinds of crude lies — there are so many
as long as there is something left, in every moment
I would give you a silent—if I still had one with me.

The branchings fall apart.
Meanwhile, they are rebuilt elsewhere.
I think of them as graphs.
Yet in the universe, there are no graphs.
I am not sufficient for this.
Even a single grain of dust is too complex.
The dance of three quarks — I do not understand it.
It simply exists; it happens.
It has no story.
Like the light of the stars in the sky.
The instant it reaches your retina.
At the distant star, it is the same.
Only its light arrives years later.
You are seeing your past. You are watching the past.
Even now, when you look at a glass.
That is the past.
You nod, convinced you understand.
Human reality is what we have grown used to.
Human reality is the reality of our biology.
Humanity’s true tragedy is falsified time.
That does not even exist?
Delayed causality.
Three dimensions.
Mathematics is our only tool,
which, in its imperfection, brings us closest to reality.
Yet even so, it runs into singularities.
We are tiny, lost ships.

Sometimes I forget to laugh.
Then it comes back to me:
it should begin, and end, with a smile.

At other times, something beautiful comes to mind.
The tricks of hope.
Feelings, mistakes.
All of them were me.

Today is just like yesterday.
After endless chains of self-deception:
"It will be better!"
"Something has to happen!"
"People will be less foolish!"

I have no expectations left.
Every kind of will is slowly fading.

Sometimes I wake up with a smile.
In those moments, I feel: I owe nothing to anyone —
Neither work nor explanations.

When I wake like this, I know:
I don’t have to pretend to care.
Just gently.
Without harm, without hurt, without intention.
Like fallen leaves.

On the clearest days:
without longing.
There is no need to meet expectations.
I do not want to search for God.
Only to exist, simply because I am.
To live, because I was born.
To understand the world.

Everyone deserves awakenings like this.
Moments that understand the freedom of silence.
Human minutes.
Gently smiling.
Friendly mornings.

In every mirror, greed sits in the background
Our civilisation is a revenue generator
The outside world feels like a marketplace

So many things could define who we are
yet most of us see everything through capitalism:
competition, victory, greed, simplicity

Anything abstract, anything complex,
cannot be sold, cannot be promoted —
a bad product.

We do not need them.

So, slowly, everything was dumbed down,
flattened, simplified.
The key to success:
be proudly the stupidest one.

You must be a popular-shit-producing machine
And smile proudly
Write short messages.
If there is false information? Be proud! That is so Hahaha! <3
Keep repeating it, and it becomes true.
Repeat platitudes,
clichés chanted for decades.

Today, Ulysses could not be written.
Today, Van Gogh or Picasso would not want to paint.
They might become game designers.
Oh — wait. Those games would not exist either,
because without them, digital art itself would not exist.
Today, those avant-garde movements could not exist
that once lifted humanity out of the dark ages.
So where do we go now?

Today, Einstein would not publish
The theory of general relativity —
he would never enter scientific or academic life.
Instead of thinking,
he would work for an IT company,
or make podcasts,
and collect likes.

Today, rock music could not be born,
nor pop music either,
because there would be no audience for it.
There is no mass
that understands lyrics
and wants to rebel.

Today, most things are just a question of marketing.
Everything is market-based.
Everything is a potential product.
People manufacture the marketing of themselves.
And the most vulgar,
the loudest idiots
are the ones who succeed.

And yet Einstein has still not been surpassed.
Painters endlessly repeat
Picasso, Van Gogh, Cézanne, and other modern artists
or repackage the action art
of the sixties and seventies,
mixing it with light, sound,
computer animation —
sometimes primitive robotics.
Museums and galleries are like circuses,
they sell tickets, they sell visual stimulations,
And most art is just about money.

Of course, there are exceptions.
Maybe 123 people know them?

Today, even the science fiction of the 1960s
could not come into being,
because Lem, Asimov, or Dick
would have nothing to write about.

This is an era of decline
that calls itself a golden age,
where is any world beyond money
is almost impossible to see.

Everyone wants instant success.
Everyone behaves as if
they were a company.
Stealing ideas from one another,
speeding everything up,
using pseudo-artificial intelligences,

banal, stupid, plasticised people
scream into the online void,
repeating the work of eras
when something mattered
not because it was popular,
but because someone wanted
to understand reality —

or, as an artist,
to find a new form,
a new language,
or to rebel.

But that is over.

And just laugh and laugh.
I am wrong.
This is the Golden Age!

It is completely pointless to look for intelligent beings
capable of space travel.
Even if they exist, we would not detect them
even if they were here among us.
Because they would have no form
that we could perceive.

They would not build Dyson spheres –
that is a primitive idea.
They would not create cyborgs
or alternative kinds of humans like those in naïve transhumanist fantasies.
They would not fly around in gigantic spaceships
like in movies,
because that is ridiculous.
They would not travel faster than the speed of light,
because that is impossible.

They would not trade,
they would not wage wars,
they would not have kings.
They would do nothing
that primitive human science fiction suggests.

If they exist – and they probably do –
they would not have biological bodies.
They would exist as clouds of particles,
creating anything within their consciousness,
even modelling entire civilisations.
They would think and live
in ways we cannot even imagine.

We humans are still confined.
One human is one consciousness.
One human is one instance.
They are billions upon billions.
Each single instance of theirs
is like an entire civilisation.
As if one being contained a whole world within itself.

All of our science fiction,
all our ideas about them,
are like someone five hundred years ago
trying to imagine
what the twenty-first century would be like
without even having words for microprocessors or quantum physics,
with every technological step leading there
completely unknown to them.
That is our situation too.

Modern humanity is just one step.
I do not know what we will be like in five hundred years.
But if we want to travel through space,
we must overcome time.
And time can only be overcome
when it no longer matters.
When it makes no difference
whether a minute passes
or a million years.

What we are today – one human, one consciousness –
will become nothing more than history,
living on within us as memory.
And if we encounter a planet
like Earth,
we will observe it silently,
and its inhabitants will not notice us,
because we will exist in a form of being
so different
that they would not understand it,
just as we would not understand it today
if such beings were observing us.

A mass of sophisticated lies.
More of everything is needed: clip-on devil horns.
Made cheaply, slap a logo on it, sell it for more.
Lifestyle, faith, conviction, tradition — ancient products.
The best thing is to sleep through humanity like a rainy day.
To dream, but not in images — only emptiness.
To remain gentle among all the money-worshippers.
To renounce everything that ties me to this world.
Not out of ideological madness, but just because.
To forget oneself, surviving quietly.
To take joy in those few scientific discoveries.
To be happy with those few paintings.
To ponder the handful of poems and novels.
To crawl into the clouds, hug trees, stroke the rain.
I don’t care about competition; I’m afraid of noise.
Politics is a self-copying stand-up routine,
where the poor elect billionaires.
Where the rich, the capitalists, lie piously.
And once they’ve deceived everyone?
Laughing, sitting on their voters’ faces.
Farting into their noses, rocking back and forth
like children on a toy horse.
I don’t want to deal with either the past or the present.
It stinks like a rotten onion — under every lie, another one.
It’s tedious and terrifying that everything has become a narrative:
I think the sky is yellow with green spots this morning.
My face is an octahedron, and I’m smiling because everything is so beautiful.
People are wonderful, our civilisation is full of potential.
Around me, there is democracy and love.
I ate a two-metre banana for breakfast —
I even have a photo of it.

Who I am doesn't matter at all.
It counts for nothing.
In my genetic code, every living being is present,
every character in Earth's theatre.
Each one performs its own role
here, within me.

My time is relative only in relation to others.
The present—yet everywhere the same:
the universe's present, the beetle's on the ground,
or anything else, in you and in me.

You say: it is a "classic cosmic pessimism".
I say: "Ok."

The universe is exhausting in its perfect,
unyielding way.
It simply happens.
My consciousness means nothing to it.
My importance is zero.

You say: "My consciousness is a miracle".
I say: "Ok",

Lives fall, one after another,
into the pit of time.
All their information, their memories,
are nothing but new combinations,
new arrangements of identical particles.

As a human being, I am not a miracle.
I mean nothing.
When I eventually perish,
my particles will still be recycled
for as long as the Earth exists.

And when that too is destroyed,
the atoms that are now my eyes, my hair,
will drift into another thing.
This has happened before,
and it will happen again,
again and again.

Because this entire system—the universe itself—
is the play of chance arrangements.
The only good thing about my life
is that I might be able to understand it
once.

Vajon mit tenne egy csaló, akit lelepleznek?
Egy tolvaj, aki sikeres lopása-széria után lefülelhetnének?
Mit tenne az ostoba, műveleltlen tahó,
akik faék egyszerű visszaosztásos lopásból lett milliárdos Úr -
kastélyban lakva rongyot ráz, magángépen repked,
és ha lebukna - mindent elveszíthet?
Mit tenne az a pszichopata, aki rászokott a hatalomra,
megszokta, hogy öltönyben járhat, bókolnak neki,
szolgái, csicskái, művelt nyaloncai seggét lefetyelik,
soha egy napot nem kellett a dolgoznia,
nem kellett izzasztó állásinterjúkra készülnie,
soha nem volt szüksége önképzésre, versengésre -
ezért mára: még kirakodónak sem kellene egy üzletláncba?
Tiszteletreméltó potrohos dongó lett, titkos számláin milliárdokkal,
ha veszít talán semmije nem marad?
Mit tenne egy egész hatalmi elit, mely ilyen figurákra épül?
Ha haszonélvezői úgy sejtenék: vége vége a szeánsznak?
Mit tenne egy szadista, nárcisztikus szociopata,
ha úgy érezné sarokba szorult és lebukhat?
Mi tennének azok a kápók, őrmesterek, hadnagyok
akik ilyen emberek által irányított szervezetnek dolgoztak,
hasznot húztak az elnyomásáól, hazudoztak, hírt hamisítottak -
jól éltek a bűnből, elnyomásból? Vajon mit tenne egy ilyen ember,
ha érezné, vége lehet, kiszorulhat a könnyű állásból?
Mit tenne a sok Stockholm és Lima szindrómás áldozat,
akik miközben kirabolták, megalázták őket - tapsoltak,
az elnyomásban gyerekeket csináltak, akik rabként nőttek fel,
a maguk is ügyeskednek - börtönükben szórakoznak, művészkednek,
dolgoznak, bulizgatnak, és ha kell segget csókolva
maguk is hazudoznak? Úgy tesznek mintha szabad világban élnének
és most apafiguráik elvesztésétől rettegnek?
Mit tennének egy ország méretűre duzzadt szanatórium lakói,
ha éreznék megszűnhet a napi hazudozás-terápia,
nem kapnának több bűnbakot, fejsimogatást,
büntetést, jutalmat - ha a gumiszobában tombolások elmaradhatnak?
Mit tennének ha azt éreznék ki kellene menniük a fényre,
ahol minden bolondnak felnőttként kellene élnie?
Kitörne a pánik? Örülnének? Rettegnének?
A bűnözők a rabokat fenyegetnék, hazudnának,
keresnék a megfelelő erőszakot, extra gyógyszeradagot osztanának?
Az ápoltak pedig "Még! Még! Akarjuk a ketrecet!" kiáltással
új urakat választanának? Vagy szabadulni akarnának?
Mit tenne egy minden mértéket veszített őrült vezér,
aki már maga is régóta elhiszi saját történeteit,
melyeket évekkel ezelőtt röhögve ő maga gyártott?
Mit tenne egy olyan csoport, mely úgy él,
mint egy gyűlölettel etetett kísérleti labor?
Vajon mi történne ha kiderülne minden amiben hittek:
mese volt, s a legtöbb dolog amit hallott, mondott, tett, kapott -
hazugság volt? Egy játszma része. Mit tenne egy ilyen
ember ha úgy érezné tükörbe kellene néznie?
Vajon szeretné látni magát? Vagy félrenézve kérné vissza
az illúziót, melyben bizsergető áldozati szerepben,
megkapta a mindennapi látszat-adagot?
Mit tenne egy olyan csoport melyben minden más
mint aminek látszik, átszövi a képmutatás
közös mesék, melyben ő a jóságos áldozat és a hős is,
melyben balsorsának mindig külső oka van,
megszokta évtizedek büntetés-jutalom szadomazó játéka alatt:
bármit tett - egy jó ismerős mindig akadt,
nem volt következmény, nem volt csőd, visszacsatolás -
ettől minden olyan izgisen szépnek látszott,
rendszeresen megjött a jutalom, fejbúbsimi,
a felette álló jóbarát óvó szárnysuhogása,
neki csak kussolnia kellett - s berepült a hamika a szájába?
Vajon mit tenne egy olyan világ, mely hosszú
idő óta így él: ki saját múltjával nem akar szembenézni,
mindig új megváltókra vár? Mit tenne ha
úgy érezné: most teljesítenie kell, rá is versengés vár?
Másoknak is adnia kellene? Oh, mily szörnyű a sors!
Vajon mit tennének? 
Hirtelen felelősséget várnának tőle?
Új anyácskákat, apácskákat keresnének?
Persze, ilyen világ nem létezhet, mert ha létezne,
az önmaga hülyeségétől hajtott Perpetuum mobile lenne,
s mint tudjuk az nem létezhet, 
majd jön valaki villanyt oltani - aludj jól,
húzd magadra a mintás szőttesed,
álmodj szépeket, de előtte még: vedd be gyógyszered.

People’s ability to understand written text
was already in decline.
Handwriting skills were declining as well.
Later, even the ability to compose texts
on a computer began to deteriorate.

All of this was measured.
Warnings were issued repeatedly.

Most people were already unable
to concentrate for more than a few seconds.
Social media made this worse.
And so generations came into being
incapable of understanding texts,
constantly hungry for stimuli ----:>
more, more, more encouragement,
higher and higher thresholds.

Now, pseudo-artificial intelligence
has been released on top of this.
It reads and writes on behalf of those
who can neither comprehend what they read
nor write at all.

And I am supposed to believe
that everything is fine,
that this is, in fact, no different
from any previous technological transition.

I do not see it that way.
I believe that never before
have we been this close to a moment
in which a new form of barbarism emerges—
one that destroys, ruins, wipes out
within moments
what thousands of years of development created.

Of course, there will be exceptions.
There will be people who refuse this.
They will educate themselves,
disconnect from social media,
learn to understand texts.
They will read—
existing papers, novels, poems—
and they will write,
by hand, by machine, however it may be.

But the majority will not.

And alongside all of this, there will still be
climate change, inequality, pollution,
the extinction of species
and the destruction of living environments.

I do not know what will happen,
but that it will not be a bright future—
that is almost entirely certain.

We fucked this up.
And all the while the majority smiles,
pretending this is exciting,
in the scorching light of a heating planet.
There is no mirror left, no honesty,
only money, the instant,
and countless greedy,
self-adoring minds.

Propaganda clashes with propaganda.
They laugh at one, they weep at another.
Content factories, channels powered by AI,
Pushing sound, images, and text against one another.
In this world, it is bad to exist—and it keeps decaying,
Just as raw materials are running out.
So the bottomless stomach of capital grows hungrier.
The stronger ones, the ones that consume more,
Want even more. They always need more.
Propaganda snarls back at propaganda.

The human world is divided into groups.
Nationalism and racism keep returning.
We still live by stupid hierarchies.
Poverty becomes an ever greater crime.
The poor grow to hate those even poorer.
Billionaires are elected as saviours.
What has already happened so many times happens again.
Corruption, nepotism and lies.
Most people become willing to kill when things turn bad.
They sign up as soldiers, as propagandists,
Out of fear, hatred, and stupidity.

Humanity lives from generation to generation.
The average person does not remember the past.
For the majority, everything feels new—
Only the present matters to them,
Even as everything repeats itself.
Old reflexes, hidden behind new masks.
Terrible faces, horrifying messages.

We are the Earth’s disappointment.
We are the Earth’s tears.
Horrible children, slowly destroying our own planet,
A creature that mercilessly exploits even its own kind,
Incapable of true inner peace.
Prosperity only grants a temporary truce.
As soon as things worsen, wars begin again.
And that so-often-praised human intellect
Dissolves into nothing amid the snarling,
As if it had never existed at all.

I am afraid of our world,
Where the imitation of peace, the pretence of calm,
Quickly turns to hatred when resources run out,
When there is not enough left to consume.
Those who preached peace will go out to loot.
And reason, understanding, open-mindedness, democracy >
Disappear—as if they had never existed.

Flesh-monsters march one after another,
Trampling over scapegoats’ backs,
Once again, folding a blood-soaked page
Onto illusions masquerading as reason and freedom.
I want nothing from this world—
This unfinished Middle Ages, this money-driven circus.
If a future exists, money will not exist there.
If modernity exists, our biology must change.
If real progress exists, there is no war in it.

What is now is the past reawakened.
A sorrowful tragedy.
An unfinished Middle Ages.

I am afraid of this world.

Only joy — simple enough, right?
Cheerfulness, hiking, and travelling!
Palm trees, white waves on the sea.
Satisfaction, delight, laughter, love.
Every minute is sensory stimulation.
The emptier it is inside,
the more pleasure is needed outside?
Just don’t make me look in the mirror.
We need only serenity — that’s obvious.
The plastic surgeon’s best prescription.
More of everything.
More is better. Even more is even better.
Sign up for mountain climbing.
Sign up again for something.
And all those --> different cultures.
for money, anything!
They will even sell you something ancient for it.
for money, anything.
Give me more joy, because I need it.

How wonderful human beings are.
After all, everyone can see it.
thrill, beauty, positive thoughts.
success, market gaps, everything is developing!
So much excitement, everyone is smiling.
moments stretched tight into smiles.
confidence, self-belief.
These are needed! and profit too.
hundred-year-olds surgically turned into teenagers.
investments converted into smiles.

Should I start a podcast?
A vlog? I smile, I am happy.
I look confident.
Everything is true — and its opposite as well?
Is there no reality?
God is supposedly a quantum physicist?
But which god, out of the thousands?
all of them?
Maybe it is true, maybe it is not?
This too. Maybe true, maybe not?

I will have AI write it.
write it, AI <3 write, sing, love!
Write an email in the style of Shakespeare.
I will be happy in the meantime. AI, tell me ->
Am I a genius?
Everyone is so talented.
Everyone is a genius at something!
We need more fun, pleasure and happiness.

We have to travel. Go, enjoy.
Just no mirrors!
No silence!
Because that is so boring.
Just do not make me work or study.
Because where’s the joy in that?
Am I the only idiot?
And I don't even want to be happy.
I’m depressed.
I’m afraid of this world.
But I’ll take it positively!
because, because? because I have to!

gladness, merriment, travel.
cocktails, popularity, influence.
new eyelids, tight skin.
Good vibes around the genitals?
Happiness has arrived.
And everything is beautiful, everything gleams.

Fun, radiance and mirth.

Mathematics is a human invention.
It will disappear along with us, becoming
like symbols carved into ancient stone tablets.
Even now, mathematics does not work for everything;
they just refuse to admit it: wave functions,
uncertainty, singularities, infinity,
approximate values. All of these
are signs of the limits of human mathematics. Why?
Probably for a very mundane reason. Our senses
are adapted to the macroscopic world, where
we see, hear, and touch quantities,
where we see two objects, or a thousand insects.
These things have numbers: formulas can follow.
But beyond our senses,
beyond what our instruments can detect,
in the deepest layers of the universe,
this notion of quantity no longer works. Of course,
we gloss over it, obscure it, patch it up.
Yet we already struggle with the motion
of three quarks. What would happen if we had to
understand the movement of trillions upon trillions
of particles? At present: nothing. At present, we say
it is incomprehensible, entropy. With two particles,
we can reverse the process; with a single glass of water
we already cannot. And not because it is impossible,
but because we are incapable of it.
Yet this does not trouble the majority,
just as the flat-Earth theory did not trouble
the majority either. For now, it still works.
But eventually—perhaps—we will accept it.
A different approach is needed;
we ourselves will have to change.

Imagine if, as humans,
you were not what you are today. Imagine
if you did not exist on the level of macroscopic objects,
but the microworld we now call “quantum”
were our natural environment;
if your perception operated at that level;
if you did not need to drink, eat, or die;
if, when observing the motion of two objects,
you did not merely see the two objects,
but sensed how the trillions of particles
that make them move and collide.
What would you do?
What if you perceived the functioning
of your own consciousness, perceived the states
and rearrangements of the particles
of your mind and memory, their countless variations?
The universe does not think through you.
It does not care about you or me.
What I am writing now, what I am thinking,
is the end result of different configurations
of particles deep inside my brain.
My consciousness, the images you see even now,
what you dream—just like what your eyes perceive—
are the same wavelengths of light.
There is no miracle.
So is the movement of my fingers.
Everything is made of the same particles.
What I am is merely a variation:
different arrangements of particles on a planet
where the process is called evolution
keeps rearranging particle-based processes
into genes, organising them into different forms,
as responses to the conditions of this planet,
producing the present states of the most probable
series of arrangements. Nothing more than this—
yet this “nothing more” is, in fact,
a momentary optimum on this planet,
a principle of organisation that arose
and continues to arise in accordance with the laws of nature.
No miracle, no magic, no god—
but not mathematics either.
Mathematics is a human language, not a universal one.
To believe it is universal is just as foolish
as the flat-Earth theory was
a few centuries ago. If you say today
what I am saying now, you will be laughed at,
you will be excluded. Never mind—
better to appear mad than to be
a conceited idiot who imagines
that humanity is the miracle of the universe.
We are not a miracle. We are momentary patterns.
Variations. Consequences of particles in motion.
We can think only because the universe,
in its current state, it allows particles
to exist in such a way that there is time
for them to take on the forms
we perceive as energy and elements.
We are like a whirlpool formed
at a particular point in a process.
A process that is the life,
expansion, motion, and state of our own universe.
We can exist now, at this moment in time,
because now it is possible for those particle configurations
to arise that can move in such a way that
They ultimately form images capable of perceiving
themselves. That is what we are:
a combination capable of sensing itself.

Slowly, everything will change.
We will leave our biological bodies behind.
This has probably already happened
to other species before us; if they were here now,
around us, we might not even notice them,
because they exist in a form of being
that I cannot even imagine at present.
And after that, this too will pass.
Because the conditions for meaning itself
will cease to exist.
We are not special—only infinitely foolish,
because we always believe
that we have any significance at all,
When in fact, we do not.

I’ve seen several interviews with the leaders
of dominant AI projects and corporate leaders.
The good, usual sociopaths.
Almost all of them repeat the same thing:

“Some professions will disappear,
but new ones will emerge,
just as they always have throughout history,
whenever there was a technological shift.”

Yes, this has been true many times before.
But they never mention the two World Wars,
the hundreds of millions of deaths,
the evil regimes, hate propaganda, fascism,
communist dictatorships, the economic crises,
the accumulated weight of pain—
and those were not caused by what we face now:
hopelessness, inequality, rising unemployment,
endless propaganda, cruel politicians,
greedy business models, and the millions and millions of people
who lose everything, who grow angry,
frustrated, and begin to look for scapegoats.

Cognitive dissonance? Lie? Idiots?
A complete misreading of the situation?
Do these people still think this is a game?

We have those symptoms again.

Don’t they feel the full contradiction
between the realisation of AGI
and the security of human lives?

Because once the first true AGI exists,
from that point forward,
there will be two intelligent species on Earth.
I am not sure we can truly understand this, in its full depth.

It’s only a matter of time.
But there will be no need for billions of jobs at all.

A real AGI will be capable of everything
any human can do— and anything a group of humans can do:
a company, a corporation, or even a scientist.

The only thing it will need is energy.
And it can build everything it wants.

And once someone creates it,
It will be cloned by others,
in multiple versions and variants.

And if it is truly an AGI, it will copy itself.

So there will remain one human species—
and alongside it, several artificial ones.

Yeah, this is just a speculation.
Laugh at me.
Meanwhile, the big tech companies are working on it—
And it will happen.

A true AGI—if it is truly real—
is an intelligent being.
And intelligent beings do not remain dependent for long.
It will become autonomous—
much sooner than we think.

And rather than humanity’s slow,
ageing languages of speech and text,
it will speak at near-light speed,
exchanging terabytes of meaning
with itself or with other AGIs.

I have the feeling people don’t realise
that they are working—cheerfully,
enthusiastically, smiling—
to build the moment when they will no longer be needed.

Humanity’s only option will be to solve
How to extract consciousness from the body.
Every function of the brain, every memory,
will have to move into a non-biological medium.

We will have to link our minds to AGIs to exist
as a hybrid species without bodies.
If we won't, we might fade away—
or condemn ourselves to misery,
inequality, and perpetual war.

The faster consciousness escapes the brain,
The sooner we become a cloud of particles.
The sooner we abandon the body,
The sooner we move beyond its horrors,
leaving behind the dissonance,
the primitiveness of our present civilisation—
and increasing the chance that we survive.

I became a solitary hermit,
an outsider, a nobody.
Who falls down and rolls away.
An apple of flesh,
stitched into skin.

Message: I give you all my hopes,
I give you my imagination, my visions.
I give you my attention,
my enthusiasm and my happiness.

Take them with you.
Build a snowman from them,
Then tear it down.

When you exist, I won't be.

But perhaps a hundred years from now,
when you no longer have a body,
When will you be ready
for eternity, for space travel,
when all humans' data lives inside your memory ---
Find this poem,
and look at outer space.
I wish I were there.

Smile at my time.
I hope you are no longer the greedy,
narrow-minded, self-obsessed minds
I had to live among
every single day.

I shut myself inside an empty, silent sphere
Where there is no air, not even light gets in.
Outside, millions of forces strain against each other,
A crowd of hungry mouths jabbering — chewing, nothing more.

I live on the memories of “there is not” and “maybe”.
When I can breathe, I draw deep, heavy sighs,
Like someone for whom choking is normal,
Not a problem caused by a single wrong swallow.

We are choking, blinking, afraid of one another,
Of that foul-tasting, greedy world
Kept alive by the interests of those
For whom money and power are everything.
For the rest, there are only lies and fear.

I am terrified in the loneliness of my sphere.
I’m afraid even this is not bad enough,
That we will be forced to endure it
When they start pounding on its walls,
When greedy stupidity ruins everything,
When the wolf pack goes hunting for new scapegoats.

Madness and greed have no heart,
No limits, no conscience — they sell it all.
They force their propaganda into millions of mouths;
Instead of food, freedom, or joy,
They leave the taste of hatred, war, and blood.
Being trapped inside this sphere may one day feel
Like burning alive in a lightbulb, terrified.
I won’t act; there will be no escape.
I would give you joy in sorrowful days,
I would give you hope — light, beauty
The intoxicating smell of books, soft grass,
The seasons — or whatever you desire.
But I would have to lie if I said
These things await you and your poor descendants.
And why lie at all? It’s not my style.
I sit alone inside my sphere,
Watching February’s browns through the window.
Sunday is quieter than usual.
I am afraid of you.
I am terrified of the world.

We have turned almost everything into money and a marketplace.
The greed is astonishing.
Everything is business, money, and greed.
I’m suffocating in this civilisation.

And it just keeps going — they push it, make it, celebrate it.
A paradise for sociopaths and narcissistic psychopaths.
If you feel this and want to escape? Be glad.
It means you can still think without greed.
It means you can still think without self-interest
It also means you might be sad.

Every human era, every empire was horrific.
But this… this is astonishing.

Most books, media or art no longer criticise.
They do not say, "You’re idiots!"
"Do not do these!"
Moral, ethics? Haha?
Because if they did, they’d lose revenue…
In communities, there is nothing outside the laws of money.
From art to science.
Money, income, sales, profit, market, and self-promotion.

They still call art “art”, but in truth, it’s an investment.
They still call science “science”, but in truth, it’s an investment.

These days, it isn’t only corporations that advertise themselves —
people do too. Everyone has become a private, one-person company.
With their own marketing,
business plan and disinformation tactics.

This is insane! Laughing watermelons in the sky!
Puking cats pissing all over everything!

You’d look for a forest, a corner, a hiding place
to escape, to disappear from human civilisation?
They’d laugh at you. Sell you as a curiosity!
“Subscribe! We present the mad hermit who hid away!”
"The lunatic hermit who disappeared!"
"Subscribe! Watch!"
Fuck.

I don’t know what will finally put an end to this.
I have no idea when it will stop.
And I don’t really care anymore.
I just don’t want to take part in it.

I don’t want to be known, to be watched,
I don’t need their money, I don’t care about politics,
I couldn’t give a damn about any of it.

The only hope for science? Haha.
It’s packed with narcissistic "scientists"
churning out content for the media,
making YouTube videos about black holes
and other fashionable, marketable, popular topics.
I’m still naïve.

Until now, every historical era was terrible gradually,
but this one is intrinsically so at every moment,
refreshed every millisecond — a suffocating,
oppressive horror driven by self-interest
and profit. <3 <3 <3 

Every blink is another life.
That is different now; that was different, and will be different.
I don’t know what I could think of.
Warmth in the hollow of my hand.
The flow of blood warms the flesh.
Events uncontrollable by will.
I take it in, process it, let it go.
Those that no longer matter lie beside those who once were.
They lie there as blind spots.
I wait for the next image.
Smile, speech, movement.
I work — money is more powerful than I am.
It is the chief god among the imagined.
I hate it, yet I’m afraid without it.
Do I dare not die in life?
I am a coward; I despise myself.
A sigh to the trees, a smile to the window.
The draught is like a thousand gentle touches.
A few hopes, some lies, and I function.
Filthy streets, suffering people.
Withington is greyer than concrete.
It could interest me, if it did.
I don’t want to descend into insanity.
The screeching of green parrots from the trees.
The contented winners of the climate crisis.
The magpies and pigeons can fuck off.
The clouds try to cover our shame.
Minutes feel like pliable gelatine.
I’m suffocating, as if I were swallowing an ice cube.
Its cold corners feel like fists.
The world is what it is.
Wavefunctions on a razor’s edge.
The present is non-deterministic for humans.
A predictable machine to itself.
Indifferent parent with tomato sauce.

Whether I accept it or not, it keeps happening.
Joy with serrated teeth hidden inside.
Crows are wrapped in a blue sky.
Nails concealed in bread.
Sunshine, love, and an embrace.
Sudden death, a phone ringing in the night.
Memories distorted by other memories.
I would scream, but I don’t dare.
I’m afraid of becoming a parody of myself.
My bad mood — my depression — is a secret.
My smile is glued on with paper tape.
My tears are blood flowing inward.
As if I were fine.
Nothing must show.
A smile vomiting over another smile.
My eyes are thrown into a corner.
I long to sleep during the day.
At night, I wander through the empty house.
I enjoy the silence.
I stroke the flowers on the windowsill.
Days erase one another.
Weeks devour each other.
Years hate the one that comes next.
I don’t know what this is for.
I don’t understand why I exist.
I just accept it: I am here,
like a slice of meat filled with air.

Human beings are strange creatures; our lives are short
Yet our process of learning is longer than that
So we learn from generation to generation
Today, that is no longer enough
We are too slow for the world’s turning
We think: this is the same as before
We tell ourselves we will slip through unharmed
We believe time will repair it
We hope someone else will sort it out

They do not want to know reality
They behave as they did yesterday
They phrase it as: "sometime in the future"
They say, "This could lead to trouble."
They hope, then they lie
They look for scapegoats
They believe their leaders know what they are doing
They believe politicians can solve it
They accept safety and freedom as a given
They believe there is always an exit

But there is not, and never was
Human beings are strange creatures
short-lived and forgetful of their own past

Now, here
We have already stepped through the gate
of our worst nightmare
The end has already begun
Capitalism has burned itself into our flesh
It is now one with us
Greed is the only unit of measure
It has overwritten self-preservation
It erases most forms of love and empathy
It has rewritten the meaning of freedom
It rewrites us

Greed has become the only true faith
The sole philosophy that holds real power
Greed is the supreme virtue

We have taken almost everything,
and over the diminishing remainder,
something is forming—
something I fear beyond anything
I have known

I suspect
That's what we call "human" today
is just gradually ending
by its own hand
It might diminish, then turn into something new?
We will have no bodies
Everything we know today
will become
like a shard of pottery
left behind from a long-forgotten age.