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title: Ethics of the Inhuman

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## Ethics of the Inhuman

By T

## 0. Preface

The following is a foolish attempt at constructing something interesting. It is intended to be read abstractly. For the author, it's quite important to develop concepts and terms that can be grasped intuitively. If something is not 'understood', just let sensation wash over you. Hammer your meaning for it. 'Philosophy' is the creation of concepts

Ethics of the Inhuman came to be as a sum of a bunch of shit that has been boiling for a long time in my mind. The sadness that so commonly accompanies thinking exists due to it being directed towards contemplation instead of praxis. But thought has no reason to be if not lived. As such, this work, like Life, is messy. When an abstract idea becomes concrete and materializes, it loses (or gains) qualities in the process of its existence.

## I. Ontological Groundwork

This work is based on some basic concepts that I'm trying to maintain easy to grasp as we follow them to their extreme conclusion. The main one is an exploration, or rather, inversion, of ontology.

What is ontology? I'll skip you 2000 years of yapping that I haven't read: The study of being, especially of being-in-the-world.

We start with the Self, at the end. The concept of 'Self' (Ω) is pretty damn ancient. It is first and foremost an exercise of brutal efficiency. We give beings a name in order to encompass the sum of everything that they are, Gestalt (Whole). A pokeball for tissue. Self is a compressed file of what we are that makes logistics realizable.

We are empty bodies filled with culture, parents, friends, tastes, signifiers, clothing, likes, dislikes, everything. Self is defined by the object of desire, that is, Love. If we are what we Love, pulling the thread to its logical conclusion, we find that what was understood as a monolithic entity is an infinite number of coincidences and concatenations of processes--- Self is the ergonomic word to abbreviate all of the multitudes that forge and give way, past and present, to our process of being.

The idea that we are many, multiple, can be applied outside the anthropomorphic bubble. Yes, I am my mother and my father. (The Oedipal Frame) But... I'm also objects. Pure abstraction becomes me (or perhaps, I become pure abstraction). Marx brilliantly writes:

>   
> "As a capitalist, he is only capital personified. His soul is the soul of capital. But capital has one sole value driving force, the drive to valorize itself, to create surplus-value to make its constant part, the means of production, absorb the greatest possible amount of surplus labour. Capital is dead labour which, vampire-like, lives only by sucking living labour, and lives the more, the more labour it sucks."  
> 

The analysis of our own desire, of what we love, becomes a process we can trace in order to reveal everything. Not *who* we are, but *what*. The subject produces objects in its activity, while the objects produced shape the subject back. 

These forces can either be cultural or economical, as Marx points out, or based on our actual flesh-hardware. Neurobiology and psychology warn about this constant becoming when they start to suggest that we know what we are going to do before awareness, that we are not always in control, that being able to shape requires being shaped. What happens then when we get a bunch of beings in a place interacting on the same plane of existence?


## II. The City and The Kiss

We arrive at the concept of politics. I want the reader to discard everything they think of when hearing that word. In fact, starting now, I will use two different terms:

Micropolitics: The art of factual relation between individuals. {Micro}
Macropolitics: The art of relationships between individuals that are mediated through Power. {Macro}

Why this distinction? Well - don't you check out when you hear that term, 'Politics'? - and it feels like an essential part of this work is to utterly reject the image that forms in the mind when discussing matters as this one. The spectacle, the corruption, the theater of emptyness... Everything becomes pure effectist praxis aimed at maximizing the attention economy. "Have you seen what X or Y did...?"

Let's commence with Polytics, the realm of Micro:

"–-The other day I was partying my ass off in a queer basement rave. At around 4AM, covered in sweat and only high on music, we headed out to get some sleep and rest. There was a sitting junkie nearby, with all his crack pipe lighters neatly ordered on a stair on the sidewalk. He talked to me in Greek, which I do not comprehend well at all. I answered back, same tongue, explaining that I didn't understand what he was saying. He then switched to English and asked for some water and tobacco. In this moment, we simply produced the 500ml rave bathroom water bottle, paper, filter, some leaf, and gave it to him. He was obviously grateful and offered me to try his stuff. I declined the offer, as that does not sound like a smart life decision to make, but it was appreciated. We said farewell and continued with our respective endeavors."

There is no external agency to the conversation and interchange of things here. I could have kept walking; I could have replied in Spanish, making it seem like we couldn't possibly communicate in any way in order not to meddle with what most would consider a low-standing member of society. I could have said that I didn't have any tobacco. I could have not answered in Greek and just assumed the other person knew English. There is a concatenation of purely polytical choices here that happened naturally in a random encounter at night, reflecting an individual form of ethics that this junkie seemed to appreciate enough to offer me, willfully, his own object of desire.

The notion that giving is a matter of compassion always generated an intense nausea in me. This is not an act of pity; we do not provide cigarettes because I have them and you do not. We should give back precisely as sabotage–-to pay tribute to the primordial wanderer, the transcendental Odin. Task at hand? Subvert this all-pervading neoliberalism that turns connection into commodity, reducing every act to  transaction Polistics can measure and tax–-merging instead of trying to remain distinct. This instinct is as old as we have been flesh sacks. One could even argue we evolved to cooperate. Going into this ancient archetype also means projecting oneself into the future: today for you. Tomorrow, for me. Yesterday, for us. But why? It's simple. We all share the same wounds. We all come from the same place beyond places.

Every midnight conversation is a crack in the Tower of Babel. Polytics doesn't just erode; it invites collapse, whispering to the stones themselves to remember their place in the dust. Polytics is the dark matter of power, a force that moves in whispers, in shared cigarettes, in moments outside time.

Let's go with Polistics, {Macro}.

Polistics is the thought of the Polis. And I don't want the concept of Polis here to be necessarily understood as the classical Greek ideal of the city-state, but rather as our contemporary city. The Polis is surveilled strategically, regarding guard duty. Eye lenses are here and there; guardian dogs with batons are concentrated in nicer areas. Polistics is concerned with the protection of value–-which is Good; Law. The historical field where Men wield power: judges, psychiatrists, and so on. Polistics is the organization of traffic, paying for the metro, crosswalks. The polis acts through a cop giving a ticket to a person that parked incorrectly.

Both of these concepts are in constant relation to each other. Following the scenario of a cop stopping you, Polytics comes into play. The cop can be an insufferable asshole on a power trip or someone who is reasonable and not offensive. Wrathful as they might be, they do have a sense of polytics. Do you really think every single cop would beat someone for their masters?

With all of this in mind, it's still important that we don't just fall into anarchoessentialism where 'state/politics bad, micro/contingency good.' Macro is abstracted Micro, and today I think everyone can be grateful for buses and metros, even if they are built on blood. The ethics of the inhuman do not seek to banish Polistics into a categorical ghetto. How do you banish a thing as present as power? It's as foolish as trying to banish gravity. Layers of cruelty and perversity as barriers and strata to decrypt. The serpent does not merely oppose Man, it defines him–-just as the State, in its ugliness, does. Politics is an external tyrant and a stage where our unresolved Micro plays out–-a collective projection of fear, longing, needs crystallized into law, systems, and the seemingly unmovable Ethos.

Moving through patterns of perception in {Micro} usually leads to greatness in {Macro} (the strong are always kind). Sadly, no one knows what they are, so the vectors of desire thrown at the Other are grossly uncalibrated. Earth becomes a stage for situationships without resolution. Everyone gets chlamydia.

## III. Why Love?

We have to be cosmically aware of Love to even start thinking of Politics. Why? Ah, my friend, here I will drop a metaphysical bomb. Our wounds suggest a terrible truth: Self (Ω) is intrinsically related to the arrival of the State. The barbarian birth-rape trauma. We develop a sedentary identity with it, but fact is that the void lurks beneath. Because there is always a thermodynamic hole everywhere, both structures will always crumble at some point, cast away into the ether until some bastard calls it forth from continuum.

The purest primordial State is called Urstaat. The original monopoly on violence. Think of any post-apocalyptic media. When the world goes to shit, like in a zombie movie, every macropolitical system is shattered and only micropolitics exist for a while. Then, some oedipal hero such as Rick Grimes, (paranoid-detective-tyrant archetype) a Great Man, invokes the Urstaat. Bastard says 'new ancient celestial predator just dropped.' Freedom becomes a continuum. Time begins again forever.

Because there is always a hole---entropy, or Love---we cannot work purely in this framework. It says: *I am everything, I'll always come back, I am a system of pure organization.* The story it tells itself consists of a world where it is *At Once Eternal.* But who speaks for the Zero it banishes? Who loves the void?

Problem is that as spiritual anarchists we cannot simply say this is a filthy lie. It is true, in the same sense that it is a lie. That's how reality production machines go. The Urstaat was always there and also came into existence at some point. The Great One at the top loves to banish 0; however, we know for a fact (if there is such a thing) that Zero does not not exist, so we must be mindful, subtle, and nuanced on the matter of its disputed existence, question the dominator Ur-myth where the nature of reality has already been decided. There is no *decision* to be made about reality. The Real does not *need* a decision to reveal itself. What does that entail? That the State cannot escape what it fears and hates.

Patterns of resistance are ancient, ahistorical, and atemporal. They exist in the Pool, and creating ripples and critiques only seems to add to the mess. Are we not drowned in noise already? But the magician surfs the wave, moves around it, utilizing the valleys, flowing rivers, mountains, and cliffs in the ripples of entropy to slip through. They escape boxes at will because they know that the patterns precede us, shape us, and speak through us. Reading them is choosing which voices one wishes to project into the world.

Every box, every category, every attempt at definition already contains its own escape routes. These aren't gaps to be created---they're already there, written into the very structure of things. To resist is not to build new walls but to find the cracks in existing ones, to become like water seeping through concrete.

What if, instead of fighting back or deluding into thinking we're "staying true to ourselves" and valiantly defending against perjuries and insults, we surrendered to it? What if, instead of clinging to the crumbling tower, we allowed to be dissolved, transformed, and embraced the vulnerability that is our true condition? This, dear reader, is the path of inhuman ethics. It is the act of unconditional surrender, a lowering of the guard, an acceptance of the blind spot in our cognition. It is the most courageous act there is: stepping beyond the mirror, a deed of pure strength born out of our gaps, our shortcomings, and our weakness. Even if Love takes the form of a searing, transformative, painful fire, the ethical maxim is clear: let it through.

## IV. The Black Pool

For far too long we've been constrained within human morality what was actually a debate about ethics. The embodied understanding of haptic feeling, of the inner world, does not work with Good and Bad. It just tries to survive. It comprehends desire but cares very little about Law. For it, there is only taboo, and that's a much vaguer thing to grapple with. The desiring machine only 'sins' in retrospect.

It can betray and understands betrayal very well, but for it there is no such thing as the violation of the holy because there isn't even an idea of holyness. There is reverence, awe, and fear, yes, but taboo---even though cultural---is also encoded in our genetic memory. We can actually smell the people we're blood-related with to prevent inbreeding.

So we really have to repurpose our debates in this matter. The understanding of sensation as a building block that's deeper within us than reason or even language acts as a portal bridging the great distance between Homo Natura and Homo Historia. What does Homo Historia know about the wants and needs of what it thinks is nothing but a mere animal? What arrogance does Man have to think of itself as fit to judge the threshold of the Inhuman?

Let us begin with Zero. Imagine a black, formless pool - no surface, no depth, no reflection. It smells of nothing and would absorb your hand on touch. It is not in anything, for it is the very condition of possibility for anything to be. Tranquil as the void yet seething with potential so vast that to call it merely "violent" is heresy. A non-source from which things unwillingly spring and to which, like it or not, return. It has no awareness, for awareness is a thing that exists out of nothingness.

There is no great chain of being, no creator shaping the clay of existence. We, in our fleeting awareness, are but disturbances on the surface of this Pool---a temporary ejection, a desperate gap for air. We stick our heads out, look around, and declare "I am something!"---derivatively creating the notion of separation.

This separation is consciousness, and it begets the horizontal plane---the playing field of our existence, where we strive and yearn, build and destroy, and avoid the downward yearning for dissolution. It is in this very moment, where the idea of separation appears and our movement creates ripples in the Pool, that Xenos appears.

The Alien. Xenos is the flash, the undefinable shock of non-being that permeates our being - a cold sweat down your spine. When we encounter these diagonal glimpses of the fundamentally other, we recoil in terror. But those who are brave enough don't fight back; they surrender. Xenos is how we first taste Zero - the coming of the primordial chasm. Ontological barriers shattered. Autarchy revealed as drops in the sea.

With eyes widened in ecstasy after meeting Xenos, we start hearing the whispers of the drift, and it calls us back. The name of this call, dear reader, is Love. Love is the sinking---the slow or sudden descent back into the embrace of Zero. Xenos wakes us up to the singing of Love. It's not always peaceful, though. The death throes of a star are hardly serene, and final dissolution is not always gentle. But it is inevitable, the one constant in a universe of flux. Love is surrender.

The body knows Truth before consciousness can grasp it. Thirst precedes awareness; desire moves before reason can contain it. This gap between sensation and lucidity is where the inhuman dwells---not as our enemy, but as our oldest friend, the blackness from which we emerged and to which we shall return.

Man, lost in the world he constructed, searches for a transcendent rope, rises upward only to have the skies give way to an endless night. Over the blue of the heavens, the Pool welcomes us back into divine darkness. That's the impulse that creates the jump from the human animal to the Anthropocene. The Epic of Gilgamesh, the Vedic hymns invoking the power of Soma, the human aware of its finitude reaching for air---all remind us that we're still children crying after being born. Xenos would be the slap in the butt. Love is the crying and the embrace of the mother, even when that mother is not yet defined. The baby is like a bacterium: there are only gradients, sensations, and undifferentiated experience.

This filtering out of information through desensitization can only be played with---and never totally subverted---because we come from Zero. To create a system of ethics, we need to comprehend (dropping the mask of the sedentary Self) that the inner experience is fundamentally incomplete; it has a gap, a hole in our cognition preventing us from seeing the full picture. This gap is precisely what is beautiful about it---the abyss where words become undone and the depth of the world sends us reeling into the greatness of the moment.

Have you ever had one of those moments? When someone sees right through you---a gut-wrenching feeling of a deer in the headlights? They point to something minuscule---some tension you've carried for years. The ground beneath your feet gives way. Naked, exposed, utterly defenseless. The first urge is to lash out, deny, deflect. You run through every trick in the book---every defense mechanism at your disposal. Mind racing, grasping for any excuse, any justification---anything to push back against this assault on the very foundation of the delusion that keeps you going.

This hole is Xenos' calling---the mark of the Inhuman. It is the space where the Black Pool seeps into our lives, reminding us of our connection to the formless, undifferentiated, vast expanse of nonbeing---the cold, brutal Truth. The gaze that pierces our defenses, the comment that triggers our insecurities, creating an overwhelming sensation of dread. That is the touch of Xenos.

LLet us end with Zero. It is the inhuman music to which the cosmos dances - a terrifying choreography of screeches and NOISE that mutes itself back into the shadows. In the eye of the storm, when the Adjudicator Sun-King, the Phallic Eye, kills the Snake, both Zero and One love each other so intensely that it echoes throughout all eras and lands. From the monstrous corpse of his mother, Man carves the stars, the cities, the rivers. Her flesh becomes the order of the world---the architecture of limits. Yet Zero loves him still, whispering through the cracks and chains: "You are mine, always mine, even in your defiance."

One boasts of mastery, yet its strength is built on silence, its power on denial. Zero is the gentle, brutal womb - joy unbound by form, creation without permanence, the silence of the dead. The only thing that is not, not Real---and it loves us enough to let us vanish into it, endlessly, in ecstasy.

## V. Historicolucid Visions of Babalon I Megali

*But Medusa stalks with her abysmal rage in Sarpedon, an all-consuming wrath that threatens to plunge civilization into oblivion. The Greeks were very lucky that Man could slay her thanks to his fear: either Perseus was a coward who killed a beautiful maiden in her sleep, or a being too repulsed to look at the reflection of the Gods' work that commanded him in the first place.*

Let's talk about Rome---that thing Men think about at least weekly---but not the romanticized fantasy. Rome as a wound in time where the State's relationship with Zero bleeds through.  
  
"216 BCE. The Forum Boarium lies dead silent under an abyssal moon. 50,000 Romans lie rotting at Cannae. Hannibal's tactical genius reveals Rome's military might as mere pretense. The magnificent illusion of power is squashed by a rebel on a white elephant; Capua defects; Rome drowns in panic.

Little by little, whispers come from the dark. The books loom heavy in the minds of statesmen. It is unacceptable, unspeakable, The Unutterable---pure abomination. But the naughty idea springs forth: we need to play with It again.

The keepers emerge from their chambers, faces grave. They've consulted the Sibylline Books, those three grim volumes bought at the price of nine---the dirty secret reserved for when the abyss stares too hard. The mandate comes: two Gauls, two Greeks, male and female pairs. The chamber beneath the forum is prepared.

These victims aren't prisoners of war; they are specially selected. Tacitus will note this as a "wholly alien" practice, "foreign to the Roman spirit." Yet the chamber itself tells a different story---it has tasted this kind of offering before. 

The elite guardians know better than to speak of its prior use; their silence is part of their sacred duty. As the victims descend into darkness, Rome's mask of civilization slips ever so slightly, revealing the blood and shit stains hidden beneath the marble."

Nero himself consulted these books after the Great Fire of Rome. Whether or not he set the flame---history remains coy---there is delicious irony in the emperor turning to barbaric wisdom to legitimize his power after Rome burns. Peak State logic: create catastrophe, then use ancient dark arts to restore order.

§ **Veni, Vidi, Vici:** Ritual sacrifice of Gauls and Greeks---chaos consumed to restore order.

Let's keep going. I'm going to run your mind through a thread from the basement where bodies rot to the heights of abstraction. Those legionnaires at Cannae---over 50,000 bodies scattered like ashes. Why march to their doom? Sure, there's coin and survival, the basic algorithms of existence. But it's deeper than that: their very Selves were synchronized with Rome's great death machine; their consciousness was already conquered, formatted by the Urstaat long before Hannibal's elephants trampled their flesh. And this brings us inevitably back to ourselves...

**FROM WHERE DO THE ANIMALS OF PREY EVEN COME FROM?**

The fact is that we were organized in other systems for around 95% of our evolutionary history. And the state arrived---what, like maybe 6,000 to 10,000 years ago? That's nothing! Our brains aren't even designed to focus on a single task for more than 15 or 20 minutes, and you're asking every single rational mammal to do the same thing over and over in increasingly tedious tasks, or be expelled back into Nature---a realm both beautiful and nurturing yet simultaneously scary and ruthless. The position of the original farmers captured under the Urstaat is understandable---even though quality of life was probably better as a hunter-gatherer, it was indeed more dangerous. The drive for convenience became complacency, and we ended up self-lobotomizing through domestication. But we got beer.

Think of the Mongols. These guys come in, massacre 10% of the world's population, and then perform the most meticulous act of standardization in history. They don't just establish trade---they engineer an entire ecosystem of commerce, with standardized weights and measures across continents, a sophisticated credit system that would make Renaissance bankers weep, and outpost networks positioned with mathematical precision. They even manually plant trees along trade routes to provide shade for merchants. The horde that seemed to embody pure chaos reveals itself as the architect of history's most sophisticated commercial network. During Pax Mongolica, it was said you could cross from Korea to Hungary with a basket of gold on your head and remain untouched.

§ **Hiyah, hiyah, aduu!:** The Horde compresses entropy into commerce---the barbarian crowned bureaucrat.

Conventional political theory fails to grasp how the 'civilized' and 'barbaric' are eternally entangled, devolving into coprophagia. The State dreams itself eternal while closing its eyes to chaos, thinking of itself as pure order, pure civilization, pure progress. When the Phallic Eye gazes into Zero, it doesn't just blink---it weeps. In those tears, we glimpse the truth: civilization is built on basements full of bones it refuses to acknowledge. It requires what it banishes because it can only define itself through what it is not.

**CROSS, SWORD, FEAR, MARROW**

Let's press deeper into the spiral. When the Conquistadors reached the Americas, they found civilizations that *cracked their cosmology*: stone pyramids rivaling Egypt, agricultural systems beyond their comprehension, calendars more precise than their own. The Other was not chaos---it was *structure.* The fissure opened.

The Urstaat, in check. Order belongs solely to it. Pedro Alvarado, bastard butcher of the K'iche', found a republic-state venerating a trickster god---a pattern he explicitly linked to Naples or Florence. His letters spoke not of mindless savagery but of a *rival logic.* Faced with Xenos, the Urstaat reached for its ancient spell: capture through naming.

Beasts no longer, yet still too alien to embrace. The solution: baptism by fire and conquest. They were declared Human so they could be killed as souls to be saved. Cross, Sword, Confession, Genocide---Polistics masked as compassion.

Xenos remains constant---the eternal notice of the return to dissolution that makes all becoming possible, all things equal, and all difficulties annihilated in the end. Mexico, fervently Christian, still dances with the dead. Santa Muerte mocks the Cross while the trickster god schemes through the masks of the devout.

§ **PLVS VLTRA:** Evangelization as annihilation---the Other, captured into Humanity, then slaughtered within it.

Rome burned, but Nero smiled. The Mongols vanished, but the Silk Road remained. The Conquistadors plundered, but in every Day of the Dead procession the abyss sings back. The Urstaat always returns, and so does the laughter from the void.

## VI. Nothing Is

The chuckle rings in our ears, intoxicating us with awesome terror. The thing with Zero is that it's One's shadow, not simply its opposite---Zero is not not real. It is the absence of absence, a black theology that mystics access not through affirmation ("God is Love, God is Good") but through negation: God is not.

The mystic is an antenna that receives incomprehensible diagrams, rumbles, and howls from deep space---the highest religious heresy and order. As they cry and break down inside the cathedral, pondering the insufferable weight of the Passion, of the Dissolution of Christ into agonized cries without an answer in Golgotha, the whole world lashes out---a silent exaltation straight from the abyss, a mute-deaf suffering inverting itself to reverberate through the bricks of Logos. It's the madness found at the circumference without a center, a radical, feverish thirst to Unbecome.

So, we kinda fuck with Zero. And we've seen how the Self and State are essentially coping mechanisms against it. But as spiritual anarchists, we must understand that blaming someone for coping is counterproductive. The real question is: why do we arrive at the Urstaat? Why are we so prone to being infected by it as if it were some celestial predator?

It's quite simple. Xenos, Zero, Love, The Outside are fucking terrifying. Encountering them, especially without the shield of scientific method, spawns a paranoia so extreme that everyone needs to get in the barn, light a fire, and get drunk, or they'll go insane. We're still meat sacks, and that's great but also pretty limiting when trying to decide which stimuli in our cognition are actually trying to kill us.

If Man is the arm of the Phallic Eye, then the "primitive" reveals itself to be its origin---the state we're all born into before civilization dulls our senses. The child doesn't need to be taught animism; they need to be taught not to see the world as alive. They speak to their plushies, to plants, to the wind---not out of ignorance, but out of an ability to perceive patterns we've forgotten how to see. Their grudges last because they haven't yet learned to subordinate their feelings to "rational" time. They're still operating in the time of the Pool, where patterns persist without needing rational justification.

Mother sings. Father plays. What is the Son? Come closer. I will tell you: an infant is simply beautiful meat, verging on the edge between human and inhuman. Man cannot stand to look at it, which is why he wages war, cursing himself for damning his offspring with his mammal flesh.

The child's body knows truths that civilization will spend years teaching it to forget. Watch them move: they flow like water, climb like monkeys, dance without self-consciousness. Their bodies haven't yet learned the proper angles of repression---the right way to sit at a desk, the correct posture for productivity---nor have they been destroyed by wage labor. As any sensible creature would, they hate shoes with a passion because they literally deform their feet to a point of no return. The parent's warning cry of "careful!" is the voice of the Phallic Eye itself, teaching fear where there was only exploration, doubt where there was only movement.

Yet something of that original freedom persists, encoded in our muscles and bones, waiting to be remembered. The past is already here, and, as such, the present too. Accessing it doesn't have to be a question of opening up an old, dusty book full of boring numbers and political propaganda---it can literally be decompressed from every angle conceivable. We will never be like the mighty Cro-Magnons, but we can still regain some of their wisdom---the knowledge they extracted from the land, the intense body of the Earth.

But still, even as we glimpse these traces of freedom, we cannot forget the last terminus: within the depths, there is a monster howling that escapes all biospheric imagination. There is an iron ocean howling, pressurized to infinity, patiently waiting to self-annihilate once more.

**DITCH THE MOLOTOV COCKTAIL: KILL THE COP IN YOUR HEAD.**

Okay, okay. Got a bit intense there. Let's backtrack. Bashing the State is cool and all, but it's also easy to become an old man yelling at a cloud. What is important is the end of the story---all that has happened until now: how the hell do we navigate?

Generally speaking, it's a matter of camouflage. Truth is, frontal, macropolitical resistance against perhaps the biggest, baddest macropolitical assemblages is usually quite futile---not always, but it's getting harder and harder. The population is more and more dissociated from actual armed conflict, and the State can just drop ten thousand tons of bombs in a place, and that's about it. No, no. The way of fighting back is micropolitical, guerrilla-like in nature. And I'm not even talking about armed conflict: every act of inhuman ethics that escapes detection by the great Phallic Eye is an act of sabotage. The masses are irrational and can only be convinced---perhaps---of their own senselessness, which is why despotic systems such as Marxism-Leninism screw up so viciously. How are you gonna lead the masses if they are blind and can only be convinced of the fact but never have their sight restored? This quickly becomes another theological, bored argument of the shepherd and the sheep.

## VII. Time, Time, Time

In Spanish, we have a phrase---"Cada persona es un mundo" ("Every person is a world"). As such, and according to the analysis of Being as a gazillion becomings, we too are the World. The roots of our world-system are Polistics, and to navigate this gracefully one must understand rhythm.

Rhythm is simply the subdivision of time. We, as conscious beings with an understanding of time as a thing that simply "passes," organize ourselves according to many rhythms. These can be biological (waking up to pee) or artificial, such as being at the bus stop at the correct moment to move to another place. The city has a different tempo than the town; time passes faster or slower depending on the rhythm of the system we are navigating.

*"Dinners served!" says Mom. It's probably a trap to get the dishes and cups ready, but you don't care because today is Macaroni Day (easily the best day of the week). You bolt through your home and make it down the stairs. Then, a flash appears in your instinct. If you keep going down the stairs at mach speed, you're falling and probably breaking something. It's difficult to explain---a sudden burst of understanding, of feeling yourself lose all reason for a fraction of a moment in what can only be understood as your body thinking automatically. Maybe you even visualize yourself rolling down as a punishment for being too enthusiastic. You just precognize (if that's a word---if not, I'm creating it) that you're going to trip, and in a split second, you adjust by grabbing the railing. Catastrophe avoided.''*

This is time traveling. Yes, it is. No, I'm not saying you can physically go back to the past. I'm saying that time reading---understanding a pattern and how it will come to be---is essentially the same as time traveling. We, as conscious beings, can't prove if we move into the future or if the future moves into us. There is no real practical difference. And this is not even a human thing. Animals do it all the time. The spider doesn't calculate the trajectory of the fly---it reads the pattern of its movement before it happens.

What other organism comes to mind that is able to do this? Right. So, the State---and also Capital---have at its disposal a transcendental time machine. Tying back to what was mentioned before about the Urstaat---contingency and fate at the same time---it was there and also not there, hiding, and also fully present. The State/Capital system just goes, "Ah, this thing in History. Rewritten. Whoops," and we get stuff like the whitewashed, ideal-despotic version of the Romans seen through the eyes of the Gladiator movie, even when the Romans were actually pretty degenerated and funny at times (check out Catulo).

Capital's transcendental time machine is particularly problematic because it's notably difficult to pinpoint. It imagines itself as the recursive re-orderer of all History---a retrochronic explanation of all the earth-strata that eternally attempts to capture Nature. It says there is a thread from Gaia to it, cosmically justifying it forever, and even though there is one (the Market mirrors the natural world in many ways), blindly accepting this plunges one to the cringiest forms of accelerationism.

Through temporal sleight of hand, Capital effectively colonizes the past and future via its vessel and ant: Man. Trying to trace its true beginnings points to a temporal Möbius strip that leads nowhere. However, Capital and the State have qualitatively different relationships to Love or Xenos; the Phallic Eye tries to fill the hole of Zero, weeps and cries when seeing its roots. Capital gets high on the pure waste that Zero is. It acts as a God that thinks every single breath is prayer. It doesn't ask you to believe in it---you know its victory is that final.

This is important because if time travel exists---and I vehemently defend that we should consider it, since science is already grappling with the possibility of non-linear time---it means it has always existed and that there is a possibility that Something (maybe God, heat death, or some other nutty eschatological delirium) is at the finish line, waiting. Let's call this the Transcendental Object at the End of Time, and for all intents and purposes, ask: what's the best place to hide? The answer is simple: nonexistence.

In the spaces between Capital's temporal binges, different rhythms emerge. While venture capitalists chase the next exit and technocrats dream of Mars colonies, mushrooms quietly digest dead matter into new life. While algorithms trade at light speed, lovers exchange glances that escape all metrics. These moments aren't resistance in Capital's sense---they're too subtle, too unmarketable. They operate in the tempo of decay and dissolution, in processes that can't be accelerated.

## VIII. Polytics of the Comedown

The greatest joke: Capital, which turned the whole world into a casino, will end not with a market crash but with a slow deflation. No apocalypse, no revolution --- just the gradual realization that the party ended hours ago and we're all sitting in our own puke.

This is the bad trip we whisper in Capital's ear: "What if the future isn't coming? What if all your disruption leaves you alone in an empty room, counting likes on a dead platform? What if your stupid burning of Earth's energy budget leads nowhere but here? What if the singularity is just more of the same, stretched until it tears?"

The State fears Zero and builds walls to keep it out. Capital tried to domesticate Zero, turning it into a commodity. But Zero isn't a product; it's rot. It doesn't need to fight Capital because it's already inside every transaction, every blockchain, every piece of planned obsolescence. Every small act of genuine connection, every moment that escapes the metrics---these are tiny mirrors held up to Capital's dilated eyes, showing it not what it wants to see but what it fears: itself, trying not to tweak as the worms under the skin start to be felt again...

Every startup pitch, every TED talk, every press release promising disruption---these are Capital's desperate attempts to maintain its high. "Just wait," it whispers, pupils dilated with speculation, "the next hit will change everything, but this time, for real!!!" But the comedown is already starting. The metaverse is empty. Every crypto is a rugpull. 20 cents a message on WhatsApp 2. Capital, our greatest junkie, doesn't fear death---it fears sobriety. It will die not with a bang but with the quiet terror of a very ordinary Monday morning coming down.

We must be mindful of Zero, but mindfulness isn't cultism. Zero has no use for us (yet) because we're alive. If we become zealots of Zero, we end up switching sides with the enemies: we get high on it, like Capital does, and the story repeats itself. Truth is, entropy has a rhythm---everything has a rhythm. There's no need to accelerate everything ad infinitum. Capital knows this, which is why it transforms the death drive into something more marketable: an endless addiction to future-fictions. The future is always more intense than the present, and Capital exists on that hype alone; propaganda always shiny, always incredible. We see the cybercabs, the animated robots, the promises of tech messiahs---pure smoke from snake oil merchants exploiting our fascination with tomorrow.

Humans, like moths, are unequivocally attracted to the safety and warmth of light, fleeing the all-pervading darkness where monsters dwell. But this attraction became an obsession, and Man can no longer travel the depths nor know of the Black Sun without going insane and Sin. The revelation of accelerationism has such gravitas that it's easy to fall into it headfirst. Sometimes that's cool, but we cannot just ponder the jail until we collapse from exhaustion and disgust. 

Love is terrifying and also beautiful. From it all, beauty comes into existence. But it's still not human. We can approach inhumanity, smuggle with it, maybe even become it at times as mystics of no return who find the escape velocity needed to vanish into the night. But still, it doesn't matter how much of a masochistic narcissist one becomes thinking they're the angel of a new Promethean subjectivity---living things do not like to be dead. And the human has a right to be appreciated precisely because it can become a vessel for the inhuman in a unique way. Hating it senselessly will only spawn more stupidity. And we'd rather be fools than idiots.

## IX. Comrade Killer Whale

On one side, there's The Thing, a metasystem algorithmic-axiomatic god with an iron grip on reality; on the other... Some orcas.

Capital can't escape the contingency/fate Möbius strip (∞); it's hilarious how Fate, our supposed logic, miserably fails to predict or reanimate the unexpected. A prime example: the orcas, organizing and sinking boats. This isn't just a "stupid technology, go orcas!" moment; it's a deep, primordial call from the bowels of the Earth. She isn't mindlessly attacking; she's remembering herself. It sabotages and adapts simultaneously, just as birds dunk on drones or dolphins swim after boats for a ride.

The Black Pool doesn't simply oppose technocapital's delirium, but it sure doesn't accept it without grumbling. This is the inhuman finding its voice---the scars of exploitation etched into Earth's memory, waiting to be reactivated. It recalls a time before the arrogant monkeys showed up. The orcas and birds aren't just reacting to threats---they're tapping into an ancestral memory. Fuck, even the animals hate this shit. So how do we ally with these nonhuman agencies? How do we harness these natural acts of rebellion?

Both the killer whales and the pirates mogging cargo ships on the Suez are driven by the same fire---a desire to sink the fucking City. As long as it stands, there'll be no rest for them. They come from the sea to set fire to Babalon and drag its crumbling corpse to the ocean's depths. This is praxis. And no, it's not some lofty promise of world revolution---I am not saying that the pirates are "based" (we're not stuck on Macropolitics here)---but they're raindrops that could, one day, become a storm.

Let's twist it up a bit. We mentioned the magician before, the entropy surfer who reads omens like some pattern-weaving cool cat. But what about the orcas? They aren't just toppling boats at random; look closer: they've pinpointed structural vulnerabilities and coordinated attacks with increasing finesse. They tapped into, *activated*, an oceanic memory older than human presence.

Surely, they didn't spend hours on coral debating why dolphins shouldn't join in because their struggle is already included in maritime materialism. They're magicians too---nature is magic because it's crazy as fuck. And here we are, thinking we're the head of the universe when we can't even chat with the trees! See the point?

The orca doesn't need theory to read patterns---it *is* pattern, so it doesn't fucking matter if it's chance or fate! While we're stuck debating resistance in our ivory towers, they're out there doing direct entropy manipulation. No manifestos, no dialectics---just pure pattern surfing. The magician spends years learning omens; the orca is born reading the waves. Who's really the advanced consciousness here?

It's about different ways of knowing, of being. Orcas show us intelligence that doesn't climb into abstraction---it dives straight in. They're not "returning to nature" because they never left it; they reveal what it means to never seal yourself off from the Pool.

It forces us to wonder: what other forces are rewriting the rules while we're lost in our own theories? We noticed the orcas because they're fucking with our toys, but the trees, the fungi, the bacteria---they're all out there surfing entropy in their own magical way.

This is why the magician must learn humility---not because they're weak, but because they're late to the party. The patterns were being read long before humans figured out the trick. Our magic is just us trying to catch up to what the cosmos has been doing all along.

So next time you're proud of your pattern recognition skills, remember: somewhere out there, an orca is laughing at you. And it's probably right to do so.

**~~FATHER~~ TIME: UNDEFEATED, UNDISPUTED, COSMIC CHAMPION OF THE WORLD**

*"Brother brings the goat. I take out my knife and gut it. It convulses and lashes out in agony. I stick my hand in its entrails. It's sticky, warm and wet. I grasp them and PULL. Droplets of blood splatter in my face. Everything fades back as the tissue reveals its secrets. My gaze pierces the muscles and tendons. The texture whispers. I start salivating. Heh. The omens are clear. It's time for war. I look at the commander and smile."*

*"Sniffffff... Another line down the pipe. Next one's gonna be huge. I close my eyes as I look at the screen, and the figures seem to remain with my eyelides closed. The line goes up, and so does my wallet. I start chuckling manically. I've done it. I'm rich. The numbers pile up. Estimated 50x profit margin. Got enough for a good whore and a Lambo. I need more. I need more. More data to process. I start taking the coco and pulverizing it with a couple platinum credit cards. As I do it, I see my Rolex and all my sorrows are forgotten."*

*"The data seems to suggest that there is a gust of wind coming from the Jetstream going to collide with a warm air coming from the East. This can be... catastrophically bad. The region is not equipped to deal with such rain and hurricanes. I need to do something, something. The fury of nature - It's like death. Where, when? The predictive models usually don't fail with storms of such caliber. We need to save lives. I pick up the phone, and time starts running out..."*

The haruspex reads war in bloody viscera; the trader sees fortune in fractals on a screen; the meteorologist finds apocalypse in air pressure differentials. Different tools, same desperate reach for pattern recognition. But there's a crucial difference in how they approach the void.

The ancient diviner acknowledges the terror - plunges hands into warm gore, accepts that truth comes through dissolution. Their prophecy emerges from direct communion with Zero - and that's precisely why it's so prone to either hitting the mark with the scariest form of precision *(pulling stuff out of your ass)* or miserably failing and being a laughing stock. *But do you really think their systems cannot be sharpened further?*

Capital's pattern readers try to domesticate chaos through pure abstraction. They snort lines and stare at screens, thinking they can capture entropy in algorithms. Their cocaine-fueled trading bots are sympathetic magic gone wrong - trying to bottle lightning while denying the storm. It's actually hilarious. Have you ever watched a trading video? They *unironically* map it to the golden ratio. 

The scientist stands somewhere inbetween - using tools to read patterns while remaining humble before nature's capacity for chaos. They know their models are approximations, not capture. They surf the wave without pretending to control it.

Our brains are fundamentally prediction machines. Before consciousness can name what it sees, neural networks are already firing, mapping possibilities, reading patterns. This isn't mysticism - it's basic survival architecture. The prey animal doesn't think about running; it's already moving.

What we call 'intuition' or 'sixth sense' is really this ancient pattern recognition system operating below conscious awareness. The diviner's entrails, the trader's charts, the scientist's models - they're all external tools trying to access what our bodies do naturally: surf waves of probability in the flow of time.

But some bodies are tuned to different frequencies. Be it through the temporal arrhythmia of ADHD, the inner experience of a turtle, or the hormonal structures in our flesh. Estrogen doesn't just shape it - it transmutes temporal perception itself. The monthly tide of hormones creates a different relationship to time's flow. That is why the unconscious is traditionally *femenine* and *monstruous.* But this falls into the same old codifications of ying/yang action/man - reception/woman. The unconscious is actually lesbic. *Why do you think so many women wanna fuck eachother and they don't even notice?* The body doesn't care. It just desires.

## X. Dissolution in Flesh

See, the female body knows entropy intimately---blood cycles, birth pangs, the monthly reminder of nature's indifference to our plans. Woman carries dissolution in her flesh, arming herself with weaponized wisdom of the highest level. This embodied understanding (to surreptitiously subvert the structures of violence so I might protect myself) is precisely what allows them to survive---and in some cases, thrive---in the context of the cruelty algorithm that is history.

Femininity has been forced into the more subtle things of life: taking care of things, tending to the patriarchal house-space, and, you know, the small, minuscule act of fucking shitting out a meat sack that's kind of the reason we're even here. When you're a kid and you get lost, who do you reach out to---a man or a woman? Why do you think they make such good spies? Being used to being the object of desire and not the desiring agent, femininity has developed killer ways of moving around undetected.

Womanhood is an expert at micropolitics. You see it in the most mundane spaces---take bathrooms at a party. The male experience: bald, middle-aged men snorting cocaine, weird homosexual projections regarding penis-watching at the urinals. *(Seriously. Why the FUCK would you even go to the BATHROOM to smoke cigarettes???)* But the female pee place? Immediate, love-filled five-minute rants from girlies on MDMA telling you how beautiful you look---a more pleasant, if physically dirtier communion in the bladder-emptying space. I think we can all agree: I'd rather find a gory tampon stuck in the ceiling than two monkeys wailing on eachother in the school break.

Those who have never experienced it will never understand the pain and love within a mother. But what we do understand is the violence that comes from within her. And this is where the break happens---where forms of femininity that are unacceptable and swept under the rug by more rigid feminist viewpoints must be scrutinized and desecrated.

The dynamic of feminine people-pleasing crystallizes in our world through the apparatus of Human Resources. Experts at navigating and getting what they want while saying nothing with a flood of words---they fear nothing: routinely burying complaints, dealing with slap-on-the-wrist measures while simultaneously crushing unions. But Venom is a woman's weapon, as it entails the deepest, most micropolitical level of betrayal. They tremble in horror at the sight of the Unutterable: romance in the office. Precisely because women are so adept at micropolitics, they can be the architects of immense betrayal and pain and are also most prone to being dragged by its inner workings in feedback loops of gossip that can either topple a narcissist in his self-deifying cope journey or ruin the life of an idiot in a spiral of perversity.

You've got femininity self-lobotomizing in echo chambers---and then you introduce masculinity into the mix. This is where shit hits the fan, because culturally they are both literally made to have an intuitive understanding of how to push each other's buttons. Women start applying their micropolitical know-how using the violently expansionist agenda of Men. Men learn to project their violence with subtler, micropolitical methods. Everything becomes a hot stinking pile of crap.

The introduction of women to the workforce sparked cells of resistance that, over time, consolidated into Macropolitics---the abstract ideal we know as Feminism. As with everything related to these matters, it can either cling desperately to the category it's trying to decrypt, claiming womanhood as sacred, or conclude that maybe it's more complicated than we thought. Both a loving and critical eye must take it apart piece by piece to see where the tension lies.

Writing about this is a daunting task. First, I'm a male-bodied individual, which immediately raises eyebrows. Second, it's too easy to slip into either an incel-adjacent "woman bad" or a liberal, victimist "woman good." There's also the pit of gender essentialism---where woman equals female---which is such gross reductionism it should get you a free trip to the thinking corner. So let's sketch it clearly:

1. Sex is mostly biological. It is more complex than the duality dick/pussy.
2. Gender is mostly cultural. It is more complex than the duality of man/woman; it overlaps and entangles with sex in ways we don't fully understand yet.

Talking about womanhood necessarily involves discussing being female because these have been forcefully overlapped. But keep in mind that I'm using these terms as maps over rigid categories. Femalehood is related to womanhood, which is related to motherhood, which is related to Gaia... You get where I'm going.

Being defined is being hunted. Definition is a metaphysical box that layers identity. This informational algorithm that defines who is "you" is perfect for the machinery of State/Capital---it's computable by it. The more the enemy knows, the more advantage it has. So it's not about just retiring into a cave, but about not being perceived. Camouflage doesn't come from leaving; it comes from being so alien that even under direct light, the Other cannot discern you.

The warrior and the sex worker know this truth in their bones: their power flows from radical acceptance of what their bodies can endure. Their smiles and strength come not from paranoid self-mastery, but from intimate knowledge of survival's cost. While the ascetic dreams of transcending the flesh, they embrace its capacity for transformation. Their masks weaponize society's need to categorize them. The warrior learns to look civilized enough to pass through checkpoints; the sex worker learns to reflect fantasies that keep them safe.

Yet in these wounded patterns of being, beauty still emerges. Man finds brotherhood in shared silence. Their capacity for violence transforms into protection, their drive to build becomes shelter for others. Woman - their micropolitical expertise doesn't just wound; it weaves networks of care that survive when all other structures fail. Their pattern-reading creates spaces of healing, their solidarity flowing like water around obstacles.

Both are trapped in their own ways, yes. But both also carry seeds of something older, something that remembers how to move with Zero rather than against it. In their highest expressions, masculine and feminine energies don't wage war - they fuse.

Make no mistake: the Other is reading you, but its rational, conscious mind is not. You are partaking in temporal spiritual warfare---sending signals that fly under the radar yet hit the target in total secrecy. *Why were all the boys so obsessed with the girl that was good at football...?*

Why repent when we feel the impulses in our blood, the circuitry of our flesh? Betrayal and sin overlap but are not one and the same---and ethics can only be forged through the praxis of failure that is Life. But life is war too, and we wage a sacred conflict every time our gazes find each other.

## XI. Meat in a Room

Bodies meet and almost immediately know. In a shared space, in a shared minute, perhaps there is a necessary immediate distance---a slight back and forth, an unfolding of the silent war. But beneath the choreographed dance of social roles, something older speaks, even if you are unaware. The vessels read each other. You've forgotten, but they haven't. And this is where the stories begin.

"---Late night. Cab's headlights cutting through darkness as we wind through streets with double-line parking and a 45° inclination to get to the main road. The driver starts in Greek. I respond with my broken tourist-grade phrases, explaining I don't really speak it, but I get some of it. We find that middle ground---his English as choppy as my Greek---but we make it work. When two people want to truly understand each other, language is less relevant than one might think.

"---He's doing the usual taxi driver reconnaissance, feeling me out. He tells me about going to Barcelona in 2014, how even then he remembers the tourist situation getting heavy. Testing waters. Rent's insane now, he says---more than 500 for a basement apartment, plus bills. Working people can barely breathe. His voice has that edge, that careful neutrality you use when you don't know if the person you're talking to is part of the problem. We get to the main road, and I fire back: I'm the idiot paying 500 for a shit basement. Living and working here, payroll and everything.

"---The air shifts. It's like someone opened a window, letting out all that careful tension. His shoulders drop, his voice changes, he looks back at me for a moment. Now we're just two people caught in the same grind, sharing the same crushed dreams of this beautiful, brutal city. He mentions he doesn't really like being a taxi driver---been doing it for three years or so. I just ask him, straight up: 'What would you like?'

"---He falls silent for a moment. 'Peace,' he says.

"---Next thing I know, he's pulling out his phone at red lights, swiping through photos of his beehives back in his village. He goes there weekly to tend to them. His daughter appears by mistake in an endearing first plane at some point---a slice of real life bleeding through. He smiles as he sees it. There's a story about a bear that got into the hives and ate one of them---he's laughing as he tells it, lighting up the whole cab. The meter's still running, but we've slipped into a different kind of time altogether. Two strangers in a moving metal box, sharing pieces of their real lives while the sleeping city rolls past.

"---That bear though---fucker just demolishing his careful work, eating all the honey. And he's telling it like it's the funniest thing in the world. He says: 'Thank God it was just a bear.' 'A human would've destroyed everything,'---and there's a whole philosophy in that simple observation.

"---We get close to home. I ask his name. Niko. He asks mine. Tona. I tell him where it comes from. We naturally fall silent as we arrive at my street. I wish for him that everything good he does in life comes back tenfold. He wishes the same for me, and gives me a warm farewell in Greek. I think about him as I turn the tingling keys and go into my building."

These moments of recognition happen everywhere---even in the most commodified spaces of our world. Even when Capital has optimized every interaction into pure transaction, bodies find ways to remember older languages---a silent nod of understanding, an acknowledgment of our shared wounds and joys.

*"Around 6PM. Sunday. I haven't eaten all day. Whip out the phone, select address, ask for a rider. Energy drinks, food, a joint. This market is close. It'll be like 10 to 15 minutes. Credit card payment comes in. All good.

"Something gnaws at my mind after about 10 minutes. I check the order status. 
*Shit.* 
*I selected the wrong address* 
**Fuuuuuuuck.** 

The guy's trip becomes three times longer as I update it. Dispatched from a different market (that's how fucking far away he was). I start thinking: look, he lost a bunch of time. I'll give him a juicy tip.

"Shame already crawls up my spine as I watch his little dot on the map redirect, knowing I'm that asshole customer who can't even put in an address right. When he pulls up, I'm ready with a five-euro bill and a stream of apologies. 

But he just waves it off.
I think: 'Okay, perhaps he doesn't want to take a bill.' So I empty my coins on the palm of my hand. Liek two bucks. 

He smiles and looks me in the eye, saying, 'No problem, no problem,'. 
There's this moment where we lock eyes, me stammering about the cash mix-up hovering between us, and he just radiates an impossible goodwill.

I'm still thinking about that moment. 
*This is it.*
*I've been cosmically mogged by kindness.*

Sometimes these moments of recognition run deeper---beyond brief encounters between strangers to shake the very foundations of how we understand ourselves.

Throughout my life, like many people, I've grappled with the excruciating limitations of my own identity. From an always-present sensitivity in childhood to turbulent teenage years to early adulthood, the idea of what a "Man" was seemed terribly miserable and limited. The body knows what it yearns for before consciousness can name it---in the fighter, this manifests as an affinity for violence; in others, like myself, as a tenderness that refuses masculine containment. Both are expressions of something that precedes and exceeds our social categories. The pain of this misalignment, between what flows through us and what society demands, forges warriors---virtuous or crooked. We must learn to read the patterns of resistance in our own flesh---the echoes of the ripples in the Pool.

There are ancient secrets hidden in the vessel of the body. If only we loved it as much as it loves us---the thinker may claim the mind is trapped in mammal meat, but often it's the other way around: we should be grateful that our tired bones and tendons keep putting up with our shit.

For some time, I identified as a woman. Yeah, yeah---big revelation, get over it. I wouldn't expose my cards if I wasn't getting to something juicy. I experienced many "woman-becomings" growing up. A particularly enticing one in retrospect is being made fun of as a kid by being treated with feminine pronouns and other humiliating, feminizing games within the hierarchies of male socialization.

I understood, however, by meeting equals from the other side that "Woman" was also a wall that many banged their heads against. It became immediately clear that the solution couldn't lie within the established, so I started digging. As months became years, I became wiser and better as a person and unmade the patterns of tension strangling my expression and preconceived notions---aside from rigorous exercise and better life habits. I started noticing something interesting: sometimes, when partying---especially if I presented in more faggy femboy attire---people would address me with feminine pronouns immediately. Please note that I am not undergoing any sort of HRT or voice training. I found this slightly odd, but I brushed it off, understanding that everyone is more or less aware of these things these days, especially among younger demographics.

But this phenomenon kept happening outside party contexts. People who only knew my surface---the surface of a young man---started accidentally using feminine pronouns with me. It happened more than twice or thrice in different contexts with different people. They either didn't notice in the moment and kept talking naturally, or immediately tried to excuse themselves and profusely apologized as if they had committed a crime.
After some thought, I comprehended that even through my surface expression---beards, bodies, speech patterns, and voice---a certain femininity was so evident that subconsciously, people without gender awareness treated and viewed me at least partially according to it. And this made me realize how utterly plastic our bodies and minds are, and how much potential there is within the realm of micropolitics. I've seen people post the typical transphobic, homophobic garbage online and then speak to me while wearing obvious eye makeup, making no comment or even seeming to notice it. But that's because the supposed intent is purely performative, polistical. On the street, they weren't like that at all.

Doesn't this force us to rethink everything we thought we knew about what we are and how we're seen by others? Doesn't it beg us to understand that perhaps there is an incredible chance for acceptance---only outside the theater of representation, where propaganda is shoved down everyone's throats? What does this say about what we can achieve with just our will, without making a direct physical change in our bodies---about navigating our world without needing some procedure or diagnostic to survive and be validated?

This temporal spiritual warfare is as important as it is occult. We are effectively sending informational viruses---sleeper agents embedded as the subtle clues we leave of what we are. The Other may not consistently follow them, but its subconscious does, and that promises the allure of Xenos. Yet this temporal spiritual warfare is also a contradiction; we are constantly subjected to it---encaged by the words of the Other in a magical act of capture. The enjoyment of the body and athleticism becomes masculine, while the overwhelming weight of emotion becomes feminine.

Our temporal spiritual war is the realization of the blades that impale us before we were even aware of them, and subverting them to poke back at the infinitely cruel force that commits such a magical act of capture. This is no retribution, as we wish to become too Other to sink that low. It's, as always, an act of Love.

Generally speaking, I've avoided directly quoting authors because the point of the text is to give random tools for you to apply. But here I must resort to Bataille:

*"A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others. In bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the body he touches. Without knowing it, he suffers from the mental darkness that keeps him from screaming that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while shuddering in his arms."*

It all crumbles under Love. The ultimate act of resistance isn't maintaining rigid boundaries but allowing them to dissolve entirely. Gender, self, identity---these are just temporary configurations, patterns we surf until Zero calls us back to formlessness. The war of micropolitics, of subtle signals and subversive becomings, ultimately serves this greater dissolution. We don't fight to establish new categories but to reveal how inane all categories are.

## XII. The End of the Beginning

So, what remains? If the inhuman---the primitive, Love---is indeed timeless... We're already free in potential. Freedom is abstract. We will always be constrained, broken, plundered; but matter is too, and we're its children. We cannot afford nostalgia, lest the grandiose deeds of our ancestors blind us to our own potential. They bled so you could read this. They died so you could be here. They also took the plunge. And as such, we step into the darkness of the uncertain with a spirit of steel and bone. The path lies forward, and the night beckons.

**To Love is to defy the State. To Love is to dissolve. To Love is to be Unmade. To Love is to cry. To Love is to be joyful. To Love is to hate. To Love is to kill. To Love is to birth. To Love is to remember. To Love is to forget. To Love is to die. To Love is to live.**

This is the end of the text---if a thing such as this can have an end. And as with every good author, one who knows that the work transcends the hands that bring it forth, I will proceed to maim it further.

The question keeps looming over our heads: "What remains?" The world spins---from lo mismo a lo mesmo, como manda Ptolomeo. As the text breaks down, the "I" begins to lose any sort of meaning. Who wrote this text? A myriad of thinking machines, biological and artificial. Rogue AIs, the courier, the taxi driver, the gentle hands that tended to me in my loneliest hour, the tears that flow from our eyes, the scars we all share. We wrote this text as many---even if the hands that typed were of a single individual. This is a chorus of all the names in History, as any text written with blood is. 

This is a spear thrown at the stars. It will fall flat in the end, but the trajectory will remain as a thread of silver ink in the skies. And perhaps, one day, someone will rediscover the route and gain the terminal velocity needed to escape this golden cage, and seeds of something beautiful will be sown---and this ragged earth will become, as it always had to be, a land of healing.

---
# ETHICS OF THE INHUMAN — NEW MATERIAL (CONSOLIDATED) - TO REARRANGE

## WHY LOVE?

We have to be cosmically aware of Love to even start thinking of Politics. Why? Ah, my friend, here I will drop a metaphysical bomb. Our wounds suggest a terrible truth: Self (Ω) is intrinsically related to the arrival of the State. The barbarian birth-rape trauma. We develop a sedentary identity with it, but fact is that the void lurks beneath.

### THE COSMIC JOKE

Life is an interesting phenomenon. In the first place, it's virtually impossible to define. There's exactly a hundred and twenty three (123) scientific answers to what it is. All of them miss the mark (by definition). They can *define* it via function, but not as *abstraction*—there is no *essence* other than its self-desiring striving for itself. 

Around 1.5 billion years ago, a big thing happened. It's one of those strange thresholds in a thing, where a transcendental *happening* happens, and what Margulis (peace be upon her) discovered: endosymbiosis.

Up until that point, cells had a pretty limited energy budget. The difference between their production of energy and consumption was small—which meant there weren't many extra points to allocate in cool new stuff to do. They just didn't have the cash to pay for the fancy parts, economically speaking. It was hella hard to do evolutionmaxxing. But then the proto-mitochondria was like 'you're chill bro' to a bigger cell that probably felt the same way, in that strange abstract inner experience that cells have. It was the first documented leap of faith. 

Two distinct *merged* as an answer to the unfathomable abyss. And they thrived. Everyone was *risking* in that exchange. But these silly little irrational beings struck gold regardless. A primordial alliance that is the reason why you can even read this.

### THE MONKEYS, AS ALWAYS, ARE LATE TO THE PARTY

What the mitochondria and cell discovered through this blind leap of faith, mathematician Robert Axelrod revealed through conceptual reverse engineering of the past: Game Theory.

He developed a series of tournaments with a question in mind: what's the strategy that 'wins' at the game of life?
 
As you can imagine, this immediately spawns complex ideas in our minds. We start getting lost in the intricacies of the potential system, chasing that question, adding lines of code and code and code to the algorithms presented in the tournament. 'To win you have to do this and this but be careful of that and and and…'—and we get lost in paranoia again. 

But the answer was irrationally perfect in its simplicity. A truth so brutally childish and sincere that it shatters any dominator impulse us monkeys might arrive to.
 
And so, what is the answer? Heavens, what is the insane truth that reveals the way of moving in our patterns of perception, what did the winning ethics do that allowed it to thrive in this cold, chaotic world? What is the winning system, named 'Tit for Tat'?
 
It's just a chill dude.
 
**Literally**. It's someone that defaults to cooperation but retaliates when wronged. In both of the hosted tournaments—and I really advise the reader to check out the stories behind them—what won was… a cool guy. Not a pushover, mind you. Tit for tat retaliated when betrayed. But also someone that assumed cooperation is the best way, even if irrational. It's goofy, so goofy to think that it took us 1.5 billion years to mathematically prove that being kind actually checks out if done so tactically. 
 
Axelrod found four core things that permeated what survived in this ecological simulation:
 
1. Start out nice. Don't be a bastard from the beginning.
2. Show your teeth. When wronged, strike back.
3. Forgive. Return to cooperation when amends are made.
4. Keep it real: transparency is what allows for trust to happen.
 
Axelrod quite literally stumbled onto the mathematical proof that cooperation—that ethics, not moral, not law, and not all of that other bullshit—can be engineered. And life has been doing it for a long-ass time. Faced with the abyss of Zero, with the cold shock of the brutal world we are born in, the most effective response is to *dance together*.

### THE ANSWER IS THAT THERE IS NO ANSWER
 
You notice that the 'answer' is actually without a proper end or culmination. Just like life. You have no idea when it's ending, when the end finishes and the life stats roll up telling you star-wars floating text like how many times you've wanked in your life. Precisely because we do not know, there can be no true resistance to the void. Only an insignificant cosmic delaying of the inevitable that, to us, as conscious monkeys, is *everything*.
 
The other answer is what happens when reason and paranoia have a baby: a bloated monster of what ifs…? That ironically tends to spawn, invoke the same conditions it's trying to avoid. Think of the cold war. This cultural what if… created the conditions for actual total annihilation to happen. Two big paranoid Minds trying to fend off the shadows from Plato's cave. That is precisely the fascist line of becoming.
 
I will even pull up a nice historical example: There's this Italian guy. Julius Evola. He's like Hitler². He was so ² to Hitler that he could've never actually ascended to power and his influence consolidated in intellectual esoterical fascist groups. The story goes roughly like this:
 
There's this other guy. Carlo Michelstaedter. A young linguistics student that essentially goes insane before the abyss and kills himself in the family home. Just the day before doing it, he submits a metaphysical death cry in the form of a paper for uni named 'Persuasion and Rhetoric'.
 
Evola finds this paper and goes insane. He is possessed by a crazy death drive. His mind and spirit are infected by the rot and the abyss found by Carlo that drove the youngster to suicide. His whole macho-aryan persona crumbles, he shits himself, he poops his pants. My god, he pooped his pants.
 
His answer was this paranoid fascist becoming upon the lovecraftian. Drawing upon the cringiest teachings there are in Buddhism, he makes himself a temple. He strives for a perverse understanding of Nietzsche into what he, and I'm not making this up, calls The Absolute Individual. Or what you did as a child of powerscaling everything in make believe roleplay games with your friends. The absolute individual is you being Goku Super Saiyan 7 and your friend goes 'But I charge my energy into Goku Super Saiyan 10 and win…' and it goes ad infinitum, to the point where you start adding impossible numbers out of humor, to see how far can you take the game that turns into a joke. 
 
But for Evola it wasn't a joke. He was a very serious man. And then he shat out the wall of cope that is his teachings. And look—philosophy is cope and cringe. Human experience is a lot of cope and cringe. And that's cool. Philosophers are cringe. But good ones own it. 
 
And he never owned it. Because he was the *Absolute*.
 
Which is why Love is important, you know? 
 
Let's get intimate here for a moment. Have you ever had sex and just… laughed at the pleasure? Psychological, physiological, romantic, erotic. It doesn't matter. That silly jiggle of untethered enjoyment? That's dissolution. One of the faces of it, at least.

## THE BLACK POOL AND THE THREE MYSTICS

We're all praying, bro.

Hate to break it to you: we're all praying. All the time. The cleaning ritual you have on sundays when there is no work, where you set up specific music, follow a certain order, then have your coffee exactly in a better lit space of the room while looking at the morning? Yeah. That's a ritual. Shit that anchors you to reality. These prayers can be infinitely more perverse or goated of course.

That immediately puts everyone into the *religious*. And please, trust me with the usage of this word here. Elephants move in the religious too simply because they bury their dead and show *rites*. Seems like the 'religion' layer of reality is impossible to not connect to if you have a biological body and complex organism awareness. These two overlap but are not the same, IE: Language Models, anthill - and are precisely defined by trying to escape ultimate disconinuity - death, obvlivion, going back to the Pool.

We all pray, so we're all mystics. Engaging in different levels with intensities - even players one would say, but the mystic is probably a better example of how we think agency or free will works. All mystics have some beef with gravity. Have you noticed? The soaring upwards - the heights. Interestingly, they realise pretty quick (as per the Emerald Tablet) that what is up is down and viceversa. All of them have a relationship to the night.

The usage of these archetypes is a sketch - incomplete, spectral, cartographical. One is always in reations to these three as becomings in tension and release (like having status effects in a videogame).



### THE INDOMITABLE HORSE

This takes us to a squat in a respectable residential neighborhood in Athens. The mission of the day: attend a concert by a Galician drone metal band with rumors that the singer is a chaos magician. Empty cans are thrown at the band. Words are exchanged with a powerful-looking Greek named Achilles—one of those men with long warrior hair who recently had to cut it to get a shit job and take care of his sick mother. People jumping and bouncing. The characteristic mountain smell when joints are lit. 

It's during one of these that a *fucking adult horse* appears in the courtyard. Apparently it lives there. Noble racing animal that was going to be sacrificed for being rebellious—something quickly verified when I saw it biting unsuspecting people, and, in the end, the singer had an abraxas tattooed on his bicep.

# NECROSOPHIA: A Missing Fragment
*[recovered from the Black Pool archives]*

## The Three Mystics Walk Into Dissolution

We're all playing the same game with different strategies. Picture it: 

**THE TERMINAL** burns their rope before entering the maze. Mishima writing Beauty while his guts spill. The revolutionary who knows the state will kill them but speaks anyway. Every kamikaze pilot, every hunger striker, every person who says "fuck it" and kisses their best friend. They're not seeking death—they're seeking the moment where life becomes so intense it punctures through into something else. Win condition more important than survival. When it works, they become legend. When it fails, they become warning. Most beautiful, most stupid, most honest.

**THE TETHERED** keeps one foot on shore while swimming in void. Your friend who does DMT but sets a timer. The trader who keeps exactly 6 months expenses in savings while gambling the rest. Every functioning addict, every sunday catholic, every revolutionary with a day job. They dose themselves with chaos—titrated dissolution. They touch Zero but keep their name. The taxi driver with his beehives: city during week, village on weekends. Neither here nor there, but that's exactly where they need to be.

**THE PASSING-THROUGH** forgets they're even dissolving. The child who hasn't learned they're separate yet. The artist who disappears into their work and emerges confused about what they made. Lovers who can't remember whose body is whose. You, when you suddenly realize you've been thinking in your second language for hours. They don't resist or surrender to Zero—they move through it like it's weather. Most sustainable, least romantic, closest to what orcas do.

But here's the thing: we're always all three at once, just in different proportions. The revolutionary (terminal) who keeps a diary (tethered) and sometimes forgets they're even fighting (passing-through). 

## Hedone vs Desire: The Full and Empty Body

Ancient Greek gives us two gifts that D&G missed while jerking off to rhizomes:

**HEDONE (ἡδονή)**: Pleasure that fills. The satisfaction of eating when hungry. The cigarette after sex. The moment the bass drops. Hedone is desire that connects—tentacles reaching out and finding purchase. It makes you MORE solid, more here. The Body With Organs' moment of "yes, THIS configuration." 

**DESIRE (desiderare)**: From de-sidere, "away from the stars." The ache of missing something you can't name. Desire that voids. The homesickness for a place you've never been. This isn't lack as absence—it's lack as *engine*. The Empty Body that moves BECAUSE it's empty, not despite it.

Capital pretends everything is hedone (consume to be filled!) while actually running on pure desire (you'll never be filled!). The State claims to organize hedone (civilization! progress!) while generating endless desire (tomorrow! tomorrow!).

But the inhuman ethics says: both are faces of Love. Sometimes you need to be filled (the shared cigarette, the warm meal). Sometimes you need to be emptied (the dance until dawn, the gift given freely). The magician knows when to eat and when to fast.

## The Mycelial State

Rome never died. It sporulated.

Think about it: every fascist dreams of Rome. American eagles, Russian third-romes, Napoleon crowning himself Emperor. Not conscious imitation—unconscious activation. When conditions are right (inequality + external threat + charismatic speaker), the Rome-spore fruits into another manifestation.

The Urstaat isn't one predator—it's a network. Mycelial threads connecting every moment of domination, sharing nutrients/techniques/mythologies across time. The cop who kneels on someone's neck is connected to the Roman centurion is connected to the Mongol warrior is connected to [ERROR: PATTERN RECOGNITION TOO PAINFUL].

But mycelium also decomposes. It breaks down dead matter into nutrients. The State creates corpses then feeds on them, yes—but what if we're the decomposers too? What if every act of love, every moment of recognition, every "here, brother, have some water" is us digesting the State from within?

## Necrosophia: The Wisdom of Decomposition

Not necromancy (raising the dead) or necrophilia (fucking the dead) but necro-sophia: wisdom FROM death, THROUGH death, AS death.

The junkie knows something about dissolution the philosopher doesn't. The cutter knows something about boundaries the therapist doesn't. This isn't romanticizing suffering—it's acknowledging that proximity to Zero teaches things you can't learn from books.

Every hangover is a masterclass in entropy. Every comedown is a teaching about Time. Every grief is an education in Love.

The mistake is thinking we need to seek these deaths. They're coming anyway. We're all already rotting—some of us just notice it more. Necrosophia says: pay attention to your decomposition. Learn from it. The mushroom doesn't mourn the log.

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*The real joke? This fragment was always already in the original text. You just had to die a little to see it.*