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.

I’m afraid of people’s hopes
because they weigh on me like lead walls
they cut me off from reality ----
faith, hope, and longing
the three monsters in the wardrobe

but it doesn’t matter anyway
this too, is just a belief
what I think doesn’t count for much
I’m tired of my thoughts, of myself
of the noises from next door
and I’m afraid of intentions, of ambitions

I’m sick of those who feel they have a calling
and terrified of anyone who believes in anything
I fear them, because they’re capable of anything
because belief is blindness, the absence of inner morality
a kind of projection, a comfortable stance

people like that always end up looking for scapegoats
I’m frightened of our world
more and more people are starting to believe in bigger
and bigger lunacies again

I’m tired—bored, I feel I’m exhausted
sick of history repeating itself
afraid of people’s ignorance
worn out from writing about it
I’m even sick of this Thursday

I’m negative, pessimistic, and afraid
yet I’m not a coward
but that feeling—what could become of us
when they start wars again
when their money runs out, the oil runs out
when the madmen begin
pointing at scapegoats

the terrifying, blood-stained pages of our history
keep turning, turning
And similar things happen again
it will cover us with a brutal
faithless, hopeless reality
but... I am tired of this
as well

when winter sunlight swells the clouds
flecks of light edge towards me, almost clumsy
among the greens and oranges, red is absent
I hear nothing — Anti Perfect — though I am listening
silence wraps itself around loneliness, swallowing necks
shadows dragging their dogs behind them
the diesel reeks of dirty second-hand cars: Filth-ville-vigil
another day to be endured, a common dawn
in a negative cul-de-sac, lined with tinned-meat houses
I would throw up out the window, but I’m too self-conscious
so I just sit and stare, perch, then stand
I count my steps, the spoons in the kitchen
I hold my breath — maybe I will ll end up somewhere else
in the end, nothing happens; there is no escape today either
it passes, it wears on — without me knowing what time is
I pass, I vanish — without ever knowing why I existed
and that lifts me; light brushes me gently
from the Sun’s fusion core — smiling, silent.

Silences sleep, bitten deep into the flesh of lips
the trees dream of their buds in the frozen garden
no one is redeemed, I watch my fingers
I can study the tiny jigsaw pieces of my symmetries
the vast cells of my skin – the repetition of minute patterns
from the products of fractals, swollen Mandelbrot sets
nature’s heartbeat, the dance of quarks
from this, every layer of human horror is built
we are the most monstrous animals on the evolutionary tree
I tear out of myself whatever binds me to this, this nightmare
the adjectives, the lying sentences disguised as complexity – the will
the best treatment is infinite solitude
I no longer want an embrace. I do not desire a kiss
I cannot imagine having sex
I don’t want to talk, to manipulate, or to grow rich
it could be otherwise, but it isn’t
the world of people is the saddest missed opportunity
I must exist here – this horror is the only option
luckily the sky is still visible
no one owns it yet; it is not yet a commodity
I can stare at it without a fee – from this cube we call a house
from this dreadful era we call modern
in my imagination, I wave to the future
where this present will be
what the Roman games are to me today.

We drift, inside all kinds of spheres,
among grinning, laughing, incessantly chattering heads,
as if the pseudo-postmodern dream had torn itself into a thousand pieces.
Covered by a conservative, liberal, analytical, primitive blend of madness. Blah?
We have nothing to do with one another, the walls of our spheres blown from steel.
We feel no more for each other than what the compulsion of existence forces upon us.
Freezing in our corporate, institutional, political, and cultural confinements,
we convulse within our own delusions
along the lines of universal communication templates trembling with hypocrisy.

Our lies embrace us the way lovers do.
Our greed feeds us the way our mother once did from her breasts.

We see faces — in millions of meetings, we look at one another’s faces minute by minute.
Millions upon millions share their empty lives and cliches second by second,
producing data-rubbish, layering it upon one another,
again and again the same thing,
while the inner tension of emptiness burns through faces
like a failed smile.
Fleeing into our balloons, hiding behind the lies of a long-emptied faith,
We pretend we are the same as we were a hundred or a thousand years ago.
We forget how to write, to read, to count — our machines do it for us.
And to feel we no longer dare, because secretly everyone feels these things.
Secretly, inside, everyone should feel that emptiness, that mad decadence.

Behind the remaining shreds of reason, feeling beings are crying,
posing across billions of photos and videos,
like a mad giant who knows he is evil, foul-smelling, greedy and stupid,
yet still kills, lies and destroys each day.

I am afraid of ourselves, terrified every minute that this civilisation
will ultimately succeed in its destruction
and demolish everything, then collapse into its pit in a frenzy,
and vanish without a trace,
along with all its arrogance,
along with all its money, treasures, science and gods.

Not even as much of this giant will remain in the universe
as a fragment of stone.

egyszerűbbek és ostobábbak vagyunk mint hisszük
kevésbé vagyunk különlegesek mint gondoljuk
az isteneinkről kiderült, hogy elődeink kitalációi
ezért a többség morál nélkül menetelve zabál
ha a tükörbe nézünk valamelyik állarcunk bámul vissza
ijesztő tekintetünkben folyékony félelem a magány

Most people are fools of their age.
They repeat the stupidity of their own era.

Long ago, gods were invented.
Those who did not believe were killed.

Then came the prophets
and monotheism.
They proclaimed there was one God
and a single, fixed order of the world.
Those who did not believe were killed.

Then came the first scientists.
They proclaimed that the Earth was the centre of the world,
that everything revolved around it.
Those who disagreed were laughed at.

Then they realised that the Earth revolves around the Sun,
but thought the Solar System was the whole universe.
Those who disagreed were laughed at.

Then they realised the Milky Way exists
and proclaimed that it was the whole universe.
Those who thought otherwise were laughed at.

Then Hubble came
and realised that the universe is vast,
that the Milky Way is only one
among billions of galaxies.

But now we say
there is only this one universe.
Anyone who thinks otherwise
is ridiculous.

This is where we stand today.
I am expected to believe
that there is only one universe
and no intelligent beings
other than humans, and at the same time
Today, fools mix everything
science with monoteism
and these with spiritualism
and other bizarre combinations...

This morning at dawn, I was looking
at photographs from the James Webb Space Telescope,
And I thought:
The universe is unimaginably vast,
and it is not empty.
Nature is just a maximum level
of perfection.

Humanity is not special,
it is something smaller than an ant’s droppings
on one planet
among trillions of planets.

And this universe
may be only one among many.
And if a civilisation capable of travelling
through this immense space does exist,
Then it is undetectable to us.
Not because it is hiding,
But because it no longer has a body,
and mortality, because

Without immortality,
in a biological form,
travelling through deep space
is impossible.

The key to travelling through space
will be overcoming time.

Perhaps one day humanity will also become like that:
without a biological body,
living for millions of years,
becoming something
so different from anything
I cannot understand today,
So I do not even want to imagine it.

I feel sorry for those who look to groups for solutions
I profoundly pity those who believe in hierarchies
I gently pat the heads of those who believe in power
I pity those who believe that belonging to a nation is a virtue
I pity those who expect morality from religion.

I feel compassion for those who believe in countries
I sympathise with the many childlike souls who place their trust in politicians
I pity the devotees of markets, money, capitalism, socialism, or any other ism
With a tender sadness, I watch those who believe in shared stories
in common tales reshaped a thousand times over millennia
about gods, peoples, nations — how utterly sad.

I regard with profound pity those who believe they are special
I pity those who believe in prayers and in churches
I feel sorry for everyone — those manipulated by propaganda
and I pity those who crave power and manufacture it
I feel sorry for people
I pity those who believe humanity itself is exceptional
I feel sympathy for those who believe they rule the planet
I feel sorry for all of this.

I pity those who believe in spirituality
I feel that what I’m doing — writing poems — is pathetic
I feel sorry for those who believe they deserve more
or consider themselves unique.

This is the Planet of Pity, where tiny humans dream — as I do —
while every step they take is futile.

Occasionally — perhaps one individual in a million —
someone appears who calculates rather than believes
who chooses selflessness over avarice
who measures, observes, records
Perhaps this alone justifies our existence
For had the majority prevailed
we would still dwell in trees and live in caves
like our primate ancestors.

walking beneath the come-to-life shadows of frozen ash trees,
the raindrops are invisible, cold blades,
my juicy Pavlovian reflexes disappear,
transience pushed to the fore,
life carries this fermentation within itself,
rows of people's eyes opened wide like butterflies,
there should not be more suffering,
there should be more beauty; everyone should have a corner,
a house from which they cannot be thrown out, where they can hide,
every life has the right to grow,
but most people would rather believe: they deserve more,
inequality is the lung cancer of civilisation,
in the twenty-first century, nothing has changed:
we live in perverted hierarchies,
the lust for power is ridiculous, the structures are frightening,
the hunger for power is terrifying, the lie is painful,
propaganda is disgusting – almost identical wherever you look,
walking beneath the come-to-life shadows of frozen ash trees,
towards dawn I walk, with a hidden hope,
for a more beautiful, friendlier monster,
for a few truth-telling pairs of eyes,
even so, I know full well: I can get fucked, these are only hopes
my pointless dreams.

dried-out faces sink into you
into the salty, watery skin-reservoir, beside your past
they lie there in your bed
you are each of them, you would embrace them
but from the touch, they fade
so you try to remain motionless
in the dark room, so they might stay
and you can touch them ---
a mother, a grandmother, love
perhaps if you had a father and liked him...
then you sigh heavily
with one motion, you shoo them away
let the whole thing pass, since here
in this world, there is no place for the beautiful
for kind things, for reverie
here only the iron-jawed idiots, popular liars,
greedy laughter has remained,
and the immeasurable trash, and
the common clichés — collected and shat out by pseudo-AI...
models. models and fake-creativity,
vulgar, copied, standardised kitsch ---
Briefly: everything that can be sold and made popular—
boulevard art or political propaganda,
People have become self-institutions, self-companies,
each with their own propaganda and marketing.
What a pathetic world…
You do not care... 
then you fall asleep; meanwhile
you are afraid maybe cry,
or just stare the wall, become a shadow--- hope:
you wish you had disappeared,
and no one would find you tomorrow,
or ever.

Is my existence a pillar of deconstruction?
About entropy, we thought it was a law,
I used to be afraid — then I thought:
Darkness is only the lack of photons!
Not the dwelling place of monsters, not evil.
Here I am, every one of my particles,
every fragment of me is ordinary,
my consciousness, my intellect
my feelings are made of similar particles,
as gases, a spider’s thread or a carpet,
but this is great, it is not a degradation ---
it was as if Super Mario woke up,
and understood that he was made of pixels...
but pixels were nothing more than
representations of binary code,
held in memory, animated by a processor,
But... those were made from the same particles as me...
He did not become less valuable,
only understood the essence of his scene?

In this, my place, here on Earth,
there is nothing more frightening than ourselves,
our infinite lies, our greed,
our deep love of money and power...
We fabricate gods through lies,
from whom we expect superiority,
and authorisation, absolution
from all our sins: like madmen,
who always have an explanation,
an excuse for everything they do.
Sad, frightening and pitiful.
I do not know — only sorrow.

The garden has frozen,
as if it had been poured over
I put out a halved apple for the squirrels ---
tiny tooth marks,
tiny footprints,
I am glad for the snow,
although it’s only a millimetre...
But it’s as if there were hope,
kind self-deception,
coated in a white glaze.

We are states in the Ocean of States
in every layer of us, change is continuous,
the primitiveness of our information age
taps into the future like a stone axe,
where consciousness --- after the cessation of mortality,
after the cessation of the biological body,
dissolves into the reality of particles,
and as it changes states,
creating clouds of particles,
consciousness, being, unconsciousness, non-being ---
taking shape depending on will
in ways unimaginable today,
at the lowest level of the universe,
exists like an eternal dream,
and all this sounds mystical only because
we have no words, no concepts
for when quantities, numbers and many other
human constructions
no longer exist in their present form,
since today we cannot even
grasp as data, or a model
the number of particles in an apple...
It is like if in ancient Rome,
I was sitting in an inn, and pondering,
whether humans would be able to fly in a couple of hundred years?
I would have suspected yes. But for the components
of today’s aeroplanes, their mode of operation,
the principle by which the computers within them work,
the functioning of a transistor, and thousands
of other things that exist today,
I would not have even had words.

Growth, profit, number sequences, money, money!
even more, accumulation, media, and self-marketing.
individuals behave as if
they themselves were politicians or corporations,
the everyday excrement-ocean of lies
slowly surges beneath the shining Moon,
there are no devils, monsters, werewolves,
no witches and no salvation or punishment either,
only people. Only You and I. Like a mad procession,
like Bruegel’s The Parable of the Blind,
but here the blinds are deliberately eyeless,
because the light is knowledge, the opportunity
of being better is given, yes, it is there,
It just doesn’t interest the majority of people,
the new barbarism rides along in SUVs,
binge-watches streaming series,
pretends at spirituality,
smiling like an endless image in a ridiculous advert,
keeps asking pseudo–artificial intelligence,
however, gradually getting more frustrated,
laughs at every act of self-sacrifice, I am afraid,
but today it snowed a little. On the snow-white roofs
the brownish-orange roof tiles are cheerful,
the low-glimmering Sun’s light on the trees’
foliage, the hope of love, the silence,
solitude and the freedom of thought
cling to me as consolation. I stick out
from everywhere, alone — no self-pity, no consolation
accepting reality, the rules of the Universe, physics,
I am afraid. But if needed, I will be homeless,
if no other way, I will lose everything again, but I never want
to take part in humanity’s free plunder of nature,
in that mad, greedy, money-centred
gorging that they worship day after day,
accept and cultivate like an
unrestrainedly devouring a carnivorous plant.
I want in my thoughts: peace, fun, creativity, science, learning...
But now I mostly have only fear.
Accepting these does not make me happy,
but it is still better than being one of those
who might be said of in the future by our descendants:
"Those were those idiots who almost demolished our planet."

Look at the squirrels in the garden:
in their grey jaws
the butter-coloured scraps of a yellow summer apple.

The raindrops frozen into crystal are howling; I am no longer —
the eaves silently count to a hundred, the clouds are singing,
everything is slowly being drawn into itself;
in the sky, up in the sky, enormous egos, winged,
fucking egos, writhe as clouds,
like mongrel snakes
out of Manchester’s shit-smelling exhalation.

Look, how beautiful the split-open sky is,
God’s fingers comb the blades of grass,
dog-walker shadows,
self-statues formed from fat:
selfish little faces,
feelings pressed from plastic.
I would sleep.

Look, how the Sun’s light dulls,
It winds peeled orange peel over the rooftops,
It is good to know my futility, that beauty,
that I lie here without value on the carpet,
like an unopened shoebox,
my own object,
the boring, identical,
ego-less nobody.

Look how weightless I am, a ghost:
If I do not blink,
I would not even be noticed on the carpet,
like a late-afternoon scream
woven into background noise.

Look, the squirrels keep jumping,
they do not even know that it is winter,
they do not know winter, the season,
and they do not know the other stupid human concepts either —
They just keep jumping there,
But this does not make them less selfish,
or different —
because of their lack of understanding,
They are simply more harmless.

I am no better either,
Selfishly, I want silence.
Silence, silence, pitch-black silence,
As if velvet were being wrapped around me:
I am disappointed too often,
I am afraid of you —
of the sea of song,
of the whirlpools of wills,
of the bright rows of teeth of lies.
Brgggg. 

Selfishly: I exist, unfortunately —
and I know it, though I would avoid it,
but existence is not a matter of choice,
It is a temporary possibility
for hoping that you understand
something small of
what the future conceals,
the distance,
and the beautiful space
lied about as empty.

we live in our words, comfortably
lying among soft sentences, like piglets,
for whom the sty is the universe,
I step out into the yard
the sky is a wonderful raisin cake
everything is made of the same thing
no one has invented gods yet
no one wanted to cut down forests
there has not yet been a human here
so the river is not poisoned
it’s good here, I’m just afraid
that sooner or later they will come
to talk, to talk and to destroy
they build buildings
they start rambling about spirituality
they invent the first god
then there will be those who manufacture weapons
to kill the one who does not believe
who does not want what they want
I am afraid of you
so I close my eyes
tighter
so that I never wake up
and no one else comes
just let everything remain like this
without language
in silence.