Memo 0xda95fe7a…15b092 on Ethereum

0xbb5eb035…8d92sent to0x5dc963d2…dbae2020-03-08·#9,632,693·view on Etherscan

Dry cracks accelerate into red rifts, and if we don’t feel the tremors yet we can seem to hear them coming. They emanate from the twisted echoes of a memetic virus, expanding exponentially without mapping a way out of a closed system. The walls are whispering this echo back; the virus does not hear; we are the walls. Our dreams, long shamed into silence or incoherence, are starting to hum in harmony—with others despite separate brains; with the world as if it too dreams; with our future as if it’s something we believe in. We are in the birth canal and we will emerge because there is no other option: this panic, so intense we can barely acknowledge it, will climax and break the parts of us that are not already dissolved. The chaos will rise such that we cannot see the horizon past its swells. Individually we will face death; we will bond over this and thus overcome it, weaving a living net to keep us afloat and in contact. The kingdom we inhabited will have crumbled. We will become kings of our own patch of stormy sea, if only to prevent drowning. Postmodernism has dissolved us into uncertainty next-door to nihilism, but its foundations sink too into the acidic bath it mindlessly promotes. It too shall dissolve. We will be broken but not gone, and with reason in shambles we will fall into dreams, waiting to catch us and lift us back onto our feet. These dreams will lure our reason back to life through the hands of artists, seeing beauty beyond the point where logic saw only an end. Pure satisfaction is not for us mortals, but beauty? That we will find in droves. We will awaken from a hedonistic numbess to find that other parts of us are gazing at sunsets. Some absurd spirit has kept us animated while all reason to live disappears. And then we will have something more than simply a reason to live. Man, exhausted, will meet woman, meek, and together we will meet the world, willing to admit, once again after so long, there is a twinkle in its eye, that—thank God—we are not responsible for all the beauty, the truth, the meaning around us.

unknown sendersent to0x5dc963d2…dbae2020-03-08·#9,632,693·view on Etherscan

@$Dry cracks accelerate into red rifts, and if we don’t feel the tremors yet we can seem to hear them coming. They emanate from the twisted echoes of a memetic virus, expanding exponentially without mapping a way out of a closed system. The walls are whispering this echo back; the virus does not hear; we are the walls. Our dreams, long shamed into silence or incoherence, are starting to hum in harmony—with others despite separate brains; with the world as if it too dreams; with our future as if it’s something we believe in. We are in the birth canal and we will emerge because there is no other option: this panic, so intense we can barely acknowledge it, will climax and break the parts of us that are not already dissolved. The chaos will rise such that we cannot see the horizon past its swells. Individually we will face death; we will bond over this and thus overcome it, weaving a living net to keep us afloat and in contact. The kingdom we inhabited will have crumbled. We will become kings of our own patch of stormy sea, if only to prevent drowning. Postmodernism has dissolved us into uncertainty next-door to nihilism, but its foundations sink too into the acidic bath it mindlessly promotes. It too shall dissolve. We will be broken but not gone, and with reason in shambles we will fall into dreams, waiting to catch us and lift us back onto our feet. These dreams will lure our reason back to life through the hands of artists, seeing beauty beyond the point where logic saw only an end. Pure satisfaction is not for us mortals, but beauty? That we will find in droves. We will awaken from a hedonistic numbess to find that other parts of us are gazing at sunsets. Some absurd spirit has kept us animated while all reason to live disappears. And then we will have something more than simply a reason to live. Man, exhausted, will meet woman, meek, and together we will meet the world, willing to admit, once again after so long, there is a twinkle in its eye, that—thank God—we are not responsible for all the beauty, the truth, the meaning around us.