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.