without a woman i am nothing. with a woman, i am infinite! #nostr

me, Profess Nothing! Zer0. Offer Nowt! Simpleeeeeeeeeeee Pointing! Nothing to Sell. All to Gain. Face Unimportant. Arrows Only. Beware Any Claiming, Ego Cage Window Calling, Prisoners in Ivory Towers of Illusion through Stong held Delusion. Beware! #Mute Essential tool. Needed to maintain sanity and not get suckd in. Beware Chapel Periloul... #DigitaLife

That geezer, the builder, chumpz side kick. one of them. name slips me. waste of memory and energy. me ponders the idea, something other is the real order of the day. The meetin in russia, Me mutterz. Anyway, peskee ma$on, me bet. The hidden, under table shake of dikz. ma$on$ do luv a good grip. Wot say Mike? #rant

Between Soul n Sydney, A kydnee would one give, Freely... Perhapz. Not... 2b, Teacher callD. Kidz glued to Skreenz, Voice drownD in a Kakophanee of skreemz And general Malaise. Inherited pollution of Kronik skale. Like terropin... Nippin. Inflated Egos Bittin. Flapping. Question Self Delusion... Perhaps. NoT #flowin #reflektin #pondering #writing

BeeiN a local lass, why not... Bein a lokal lass, why not... Engineers' Corner by Wendy Cope (1986) Published in Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis Why isn't there an Engineers' Corner in Westminster Abbey? In Britain we've always made more fuss of a ballad than a blueprint... How many schoolchildren dream of becoming great engineers?    Advertisement placed in The Times by the Engineering Council We make more fuss of ballads than of blueprints – That's why so many poets end up rich, While engineers scrape by in cheerless garrets. Who needs a bridge or dam? Who needs a ditch? Whereas the person who can write a sonnet Has got it made. It's always been the way, For everybody knows that we need poems And everybody reads them every day. Yes, life is hard if you choose engineering – You're sure to need another job as well; You'll have to plan your projects in the evenings Instead of going out. It must be hell. While well-heeled poets ride around in Daimlers, You'll burn the midnight oil to earn a crust, With no hope of a statue in the Abbey, With no hope, even, of a modest bust. No wonder small boys dream of writing couplets And spurn the bike, the lorry and the train. There's far too much encouragement for poets – That's why this country's going down the drain. poetry, poems, 20th century #Poetry

#TheatreOfMagick #OpenSource #OpenRoad #Ka0Z #ConsciousnessProgrom #SMI²LE

#NoHopEinFlyinG

#Neuroplasticity

ADULTHOOD IS A COVENANT YOU BROKE Adults Only. 18+. If you're still waiting for bolz to drop, scroll past. 🥸 Most people never make it. Not to adulthood. They just age like milk left in the sun—souring slowly while pretending they're vintage wine. They walk through life clutching their emotional pacifiers like sacred relics. When challenged, they melt into tantrum-children whose only spell is "HOW DARE U." They outsource their thinking to algorithms, their morality to HR handbooks, their dreams to Netflix queues. You know them. They comment. They virtue-signal. They demand safe spaces for their fragile egos while setting fires to anyone who disagrees. These pathetic human specimens were cut from diabolique cloth—not because they're evil, but because evil requires intention. They're worse: absent. Hollowed out by convenience culture, fed on processed meaning, raised on dopamine hits and institutional lies. Here's the horror beneath: they don't know they're hollow. Like bats fleeing the cave, demons emerge from the dark night of their souls into the exposure of daylight. They scatter when confronted with actual thought. When someone asks them to think, really think—for five fucking minutes—they break down sobbing about "respect" and "boundaries" and "being triggered." But here's the raw truth: you're not protected. You're trapped. Trapped in a simulation of maturity, wearing the costume of an adult while your inner child whines in the basement. Timothy Leary warned us: "Reality is merely a consensus hallucination." Robert Anton Wilson hammered it home: "The map is not the territory, but most people are lost holding maps they don't understand." Neither of them anticipated the final stage: people who don't even own the damn map. They're standing in the street screaming at traffic lights while the apocalypse burns around them. The bat-flight is now. The night is ending. These creatures—these half-born—are exposed in the harsh white light of actual consciousness. And they're screeching. Why? Because the cage door opened and they forgot how to fly. This post is gated 18+. Not because the words burn—but because the reader must possess the neural architecture to survive contact with actual truth. Welcome to the new aeon, children. Or should we say: former children. Some of you never will be anything else. #ConsciousnessProgrom #TheOpenRoad #AdultOrNothing #DarkNightOfTheSoul #RAWilson #TLLeary #Nostr #DecentralizedTruth #PsychedelicRealism #WakeTheFuckUp

Retarded, emotionally spastik kids, adult too - a sorry state, thinkin wot they think true. Projecting exposes the inner problem. ShoWdoWS cast on nostrs cave wall. look closely... $Ee!! NO DAMN BaLLz!! #FreePalestine #nostr