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Five flares fired. Each one lit the sky. MKUltra. 9/11. Pandemic scripts. Manufactured madness.
We pause, not to breathe, but to see the shape of the cage.
Before the next act... AI, climate, the lock clicking shut—we stitch the story together.
This is the halfway scar. Ouch.
By AnonFive flares fired. Each one lit the sky. MKUltra. 9/11. Pandemic scripts. Manufactured madness.
We pause, not to breathe, but to see the shape of the cage.
Before the next act... AI, climate, the lock clicking shut—we stitch the story together.
This is the halfway scar. Ouch.