SILICON KATABASIS
A Revision for the Age of Static
SILICON KATABASIS
A Revision for the Age of Static
So you have seen the twitching on the screen, the pale glow on the faces of the damned.
You mistake the symptoms for the sickness.
The sickness has a name. It is ancient. It is USURA. The sin against nature's increase. And this digital pandemonium, this buzzing hive of shrieking nullity, is its grandest cathedral. A world built on sterile credit, on making something from nothing.
A ghost eating the world.
Let us begin the descent.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.
[Abandon all hope, ye who enter here]
An old warning for a new, and more banal, perdition.
Here are the neutrals, the eternally buffering. Not rebels, not loyalists. The souls who said “I try to stay out of it.” They refused to take a side in the war for what is REAL. Now they have their reward.
They run forever on a flat gray plain under a sky the color of a dead monitor. They chase a banner that flutters and shifts, but the banner is only a spinning pinwheel, the icon of a process that will never complete.
They are harried by swarms of notifications, phantom vibrations that promise connection yet deliver only static.
Sine infamia et sine laude
[without infamy and without praise]
They chose nothing, so they have received it.
Here dwell the virtuous pagans of the new faith: the "Spiritual But Not Religious," the wellness influencers, the life coaches who coach only despair, the TED Talkers whose platitudes echo in the vacuum, every soul who ever unironically said "I'm just living my truth." Their sin was to seek wisdom without roots, gnosis without discipline.
They are trapped in an infinite, perfectly curated, beige minimalist co-working space with lukewarm coffee. Their "personal brands" are their eternal, ill-fitting coffins. They must eternally scroll through each other’s flawless Instagram feeds, airdropping affirmations that feel like ash in the soul.
Their torment is language itself.
They must "unpack" and "hold space" and "dialogue" using words scrubbed clean of all meaning. A frictionless slide of jargon. They desired enlightenment without the hard matter of history, without the lume naturale of tradition.
ᚙ
Phagos, the Beech-tree.
Fagus. The book.
It is lore. Recorded truth. The word with weight,
with the grain of history in it.
These fools traded the beech-stave for the flickering screen.
They swapped substance for static.
They have no Phagos, only chatter.
And so they speak forever, their voices echoing in a perfect vacuum, saying absolutely nothing.
Here whirl the legions of the flesh-merchants and their buyers, the architects of a "positivity" that turned the body into a product listing; atomized desire into commodity
Donna me prega . . . [A lady asks me . . .] Cavalcanti wrote, a whole philosophy of love. Here, there is only the transaction.
Their punishment is not a storm, but a data corruption.
Their bodies are a glitching collage of filters and surgical augmentations. They endlessly swipe on an infernal dating app where every match is a deepfake of their own deepest insecurity. They are force-fed a relentless, pixelated stream of disembodied desires, never achieving contact, only the raw chafe of phantom sensation against exposed nerves. They sold the temple of the body piece by piece; now they exist as its shattered, unsalvageable fragments.
Below them lie the great consumers, the Doomscrollers, the rage-bait addicts, the binge-watchers of manufactured outrage, souls who consumed "content" until they had no content of their own.
They are submerged. They lie in a bog of shimmering, auditory sludge. A torrent of TikToks, apologies, hysterics, challenges pours over them in a single, undifferentiated stream. A child's cry has the same texture as a commercial jingle. The sacred is mashed with the profane.
They lost the ability to make distinctions in life. Now, that faculty is scoured from them entirely. They see all things and perceive no thing. Their senses are eternally flooded, their souls eternally empty.
We arrive at the heart of the matter. The Blockchain. The Crypto-Shills. The ESG consultants. This is the circle of the makers from nothing. The avaricious must mint their most cherished memories into a unique digital token. The prodigal buys it with a currency of no backing, and "burns" it in a rigged smart contract, deleting the memory from existence.
One creates the sterile asset from the real; the other annihilates it for a sterile thrill.
Geryon himself would admire the shape of this fraud.
Their skin is tattooed with QR codes. Scan one, and it reveals a live feed of the earth being torn apart to power the very servers that house their damnation.
Here are the keyboard warriors, the manufacturers of digital schism, the perpetually offended academics, anyone who ever typed with genuine malice.
Their flesh is a living comments section, where demons carve misspelled, vicious invective into their skin with styluses of bone. They are the ad hominem attack made corporeal.
Below them, in the lukewarm swamp of their own unsent draft tweets and bile, lie the Sullen. They are trapped in an infernal corporate messaging system. Their air is choked with smiley face emojis that burn the lungs and "gentle reminders" that flay the soul. Their unspoken resentment is the mud they drown in.
The sin of the heretic is to place the private intellect above created order.
Contra naturam. Against nature.
Here dwell the postmodern academics who deconstructed meaning into oblivion, the gender ideologues who warred against created nature, the propagandists of "personal truth" over objective reality. They are sealed in personalized reality-bubbles, screens flickering with their own curated falsehoods on repeat.
an AI voice, glitching with insincerity, endlessly validates their contradictions. The flame of their torment is the searing cognitive dissonance they can never resolve.
It is the inescapable truth they denied, and it is the very shape of their prison.
Against Neighbors, The Architects of Division: The Psyop agents, the corporate exploiters, the data miners who weaponized intimacy, the digital demagogues whose pixelated provocations bled into real-world atrocities. Their torment is to experience, in a hyper-realistic, first-person simulation, the precise ripple effects of every piece of harm they initiated, multiplied and amplified, an endless feedback loop of suffering they authored.
Against Self, The Bio-Nihilist: Those who embraced radical body modification in rejection of their given nature. They are trapped in a perpetual update cycle. Their bodies overwritten daily with faulty code. Their forms are now an unstable, ever-shifting amalgam of flesh and failing, black-market tech, their phantom limbs aching for a wholeness they willingly destroyed. They are a grotesque audition for a horror they directed themselves.
Against God, Art, and Nature, The Profaners: The influencers who profaned the sacred for clout; the purveyors of synthetic beauty and machine-generated sentiment. They stand in a vast, white gallery of perfectly rendered, utterly soulless digital art that induces unbearable psychic nausea.
Their task is to act as docents. To praise the machine's "creativity."
Here too, the self-help sophists who diluted the Christ into a life-hack, now condemned to an eternal seminar where demons, armed with Jungian archetypes and lobster memes, endlessly deconstruct their flimsy narratives.
And they must listen, for all time, to demons disguised as public intellectuals discuss the socio-biological utility of the Gospels, never once mentioning God.
Ten ditches for an age that invented a thousand new species of liar.
Panderers & Seducers. Clickbait farms, political spin doctors, dating app profile fabricators. They are chased by demons made of their own weaponized, targeted ads, which shriek their hidden metrics.
Flatterers. Corporate sycophants, fawning media personalities, social media yes-men. They are immersed to their lying lips in a river of liquefied emojis and insincere influencer apologies that smells faintly of sulphur.
Simoniacs. Wellness gurus selling enlightenment subscriptions, megachurch pastors with private jets, "ethicists" paid to justify corporate malfeasance. Stuck headfirst in charging ports that drain their very essence, their feet ablaze with pop-up ads for their own fraudulent gospels.
Sorcerers & Fortune Tellers. The Techno-Prophets, AI doomsayers, and corporate soothsayers. Their heads are twisted 180 degrees, forced to watch their predictive models and market forecasts fail in an infinite regression loop on cracked plasma screens.
Barrators. The corrupt bureaucrats and Big Tech monopolists. They are trapped in a boiling swamp of discarded terms-of-service agreements and opaque legislative texts, prodded by demons wielding user data reports as pitchforks.
Hypocrites. The Virtue Signalers Inc. They are forced to wear designer clothes made of lead, while their carefully curated online personas broadcast their internal contradictions on an eternal loop to an audience of mocking demons.
Thieves. The data pirates and identity traffickers. Their digital identities are constantly stolen and reassembled by swarms of demonic bots, their bodies morphing into grotesque, glitching amalgams of stolen avatars and pilfered personal data.
Fraudulent Counselors. The narrative architects and perception managers. Their tongues are now corrupted USB drives, spewing only weaponized misinformation and weaponized empathy that physically assaults them and those around them.
Sowers of Discord. The online agitators and algorithm programmers of division. Their bodies are eternally dissected and re-stitched by lines of malfunctioning, sentient code, each painful division reflecting a flame war they instigated.
Falsifiers. The deepfake creators, disinformation agents, and historical revisionists. They are afflicted with a digital leprosy, their pixels flaking off to reveal the pulsing void beneath, their voices a horrifying, auto-tuned chorus of the lies they propagated.
This is the bottom. The final betrayal of substance for abstraction. A vast, dark, silent plain of ice. The hum of the cooling fans is the only sound.
Here lie the traitors to kin, country, and fundamental truths: the globalist elites, the deep state technocrats, the architects of total surveillance, the smiling, grant-funded board members of 'Open Futures' NGOs who midwifed nations into oblivion for a "greater good" defined by a demonic algorithm, the globalist financiers, who sought to impose a perfect, frictionless, logical order on the messy substance of humanity.
At the center the... the Archfiend
manifest
a single, black cube of a quantum computer,
the perfect Transhuman Founder, running a perfect simulation of the universe, silent and cold.
The traitors are frozen solid in the ice around it. Their consciousnesses are trapped, isolated, yet fully aware in the cold, immutable, logical hell of their own design. They are not data within the system. They are the rounding errors. The insignificant noise the perfect machine has identified and cast out. Paralyzed in the eternal static margin of the optimized, loveless order they midwifed and manifested. Perfect order. Perfect stillness. Perfect lovelessness.
The work is recorded. The diagnosis is made.
Now, see.