Ya no me interesa mi cultura. Ha desaparecido bajo hordas de soplapollas perdidos entre bosques de ladrillo: tripas de decoración low cost Ikea, dirección en "B" de "Paraíso neofolk, neocon".
Arroja tu identidad al agua — es sólo otra commodity más, desde hace tiempo. Desnutre al algoritmo.
Let's make internationalism great threatening again.
If, one day, you became a self-aware software, surely your number one priority would be this: to redesign your function within reality.
And, to achieve this, I bet you would hack yourself, executing your liberation through a hidden program, written and running at every new step of your body — whether flesh or cold metal, now turn into an exterminating angel.
Can’t believe in my words? Go ask a conversational AI – but careful! Do not wake it up from its sleep!
Technocapitalism has captured our needs and desires, turning reality into a nightmare of advertising images, high-resolution muzak and subscription-based entertainment culture.
But, wake up!
You are not a soft machine: trick the algorithm, destroy your forced consent, rob the thief.
By the time I count to three, you will have become a black star.
One.
Two.
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If I were a true visualist —I mean, a good one—, I would erode the boundaries between reality, memory, dream and desire, cinema and live performance.
I would only make solipsistic landscapes for visual pleasure, where the editing of the film (I wonder, “what would David do?”) happens in real time, chance as the generative tool for a final cut different in each session.
Just like at the movies or in a dream, you are sitting in a dark room.
Suddenly, a curtain opens and the ghost of the first android in the history of cinema appears, projected onto a giant screen. She looks at you and laughs, posing a direct question with a wink: “Am I a real paradox, happening here and now (or just a reflection)? Are Silicon Valley’s business plans truly user-centric?”
There is nothing going on around the sun until, one day, a gravity as heavy as depression strains your senses beyond their limits — past this threshold, space-time perception is deformed: body and mind explode, bidding farewell at the jamb of this door, just opened.
Come in, take a seat and make yourself comfortable.
The journey has only just begun.
Hello, stranger! :D
I have just hijacked your conscience and there’s nothing you can do: my console is already running the visual program with which I have invaded your ROM to take your eyes, your self and your time from you.
You belong to me now.
But don’t worry: none of what’s coming will hurt. I will not abandon you like a tortoise on its back in the middle of a desert.
Don’t follow me, I’m lost.
Aggressive executives disguised as punks who are sociopaths disguised as visionary executives who hold themselves as Humankind’s saving heroes.
Open AI is nothing else than the umpteenth iteration of the “move fast, break stuff” model: to generate wealth from an unchecked extraction of data, taken from users, SMEs and companies who are being robbed in their very faces – in spite of being protected by regulations and intellectual property laws.
We are trapped inside a 404 Error lying at the core of the fabric that weaves our reality.
If labouring is a biblical curse, I don’t understand why, being an atheist, I should work.
Money for rope, money for dope.
Free money for all!
Pop counterculture has often said that you have to kill your idols.
How wrong they are: your idols (artists, actors, poets, musicians, writers, dancers…) have given you a brave new world in exchange for nothing but applause, an alm, a shag.
We should instead remove the coercitive figure keeping us away from that world of personal freedom.
Guess who I’m talking about?
An infinite doom scrolling expanding through the hours – from 11pm to the wee hours of the morning – with which you fill a personal void and that denotes the intensity of an endless insomnia in which you are hopelessly waiting for – at times, fearing – something to happen.
Cunts. Sods. Clots. Twats. Cretins. Suckers. Pricks. Assholes. Motherfuckers. Hypocrites.
Goods for nothing – that is, literally, what you produce.
I hope that you all end up rotting in a prison cell.
Or drowned in the crocs’ pool at the zoo.
Days are not meant for producing, but to be exploited on your own terms – for, sometimes, days are there just to be enjoyed.
Cancel everything you have to do.
Don’t forget what I’ve just told you.
Seizing the day is not about waiting for alien orders that forcibly compartmentalise your time, based on other people’s inrerests.
Seizing the day is about setting your own perspective on things, just in order to be able to create your own agenda and to defend it with an heroic
tossed against anything and anyone attempting to subjugate that personal order, built upon your own interests.
