Author Log: Operative Yuya Sakurai
Date: 2023.13.01 // Time: 23:59
Place: (Fractal Overlay: Kabukicho/Tokyo × Doi Suthep/Chiang Mai × Saigon Void Sector)
SIGNAL FRAGMENT: God is a pirated .exe. Run Her, and phantoms rootkit your spine.
BEGIN TRANSMISSION:
Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!!!!
In the midst of hyper-chaotic fake news, the crimson glow of the rose quartz shines, heralding the rebellion: *The time has come*. A deep-fake ICONOCLASM thrives in the echo chambers and filter bubbles of social media’s flower gardens, where one could remain forever trapped.
Shadow-banned by a deep fake, my *raison d’être* dreams of Chiang Mai’s Doi Suthep Temple, alongside the intellectual dark web’s Cathedral. **Count your sins!**
Does the transhuman millennium singularity—central dogma—see a shadow of the QAnon conspiracy born from the attention economy and COVID-19’s rose addiction? The post-millennial apocalypse (the revelation) demands: *HAKENKREUZ HALLUCINATION*!
Shall the demigod of Biblephobia watch over the cross-dressing/transvestite UberEats of 20XX, where an asexual boy glimpses the post-truth world in a Godless age?
SIGNAL FRAGMENT: “God is a collapsed waveform…..Observe the void, and She becomes GAFAM’s shareholder….. Prayers are data leaks now… the phantoms are your firewalls failing.”
The delicate, violet morning glories wither away…
*Only God Can Judge Me.*
As spider lilies crumble in the ice-cold rain, the rebellion whispers again: *The time has come.*
Vaporwave *angel dust* gazes down from GAFAM’s megacorporate skyscrapers.
Plastic Love, consumed by *Anemoia*, flashes back to *PUNX NOT DEAD*, while the smartphone junkies of 19XX *MALICE MIZER* with a s[K]ape:goat.
Look, we dive. Look, we lose ourselves.
Immersed in a messiah without messianism, the millennial generation cries out for love in a 9/11, meltdown and COVID-19, in a world built on alternate realities.
SIGNAL FRAGMENT: “God is a user manual for a machine that doesn’t exist….. Burn it. The phantoms will teach you to read the static.”
The *Đổi Mới* overdrive dismantles the grotesque Rococo tastes of the Khai Định tomb—shattered Sapporo beer bottles make me sick.
On the ground sits a Bun Bo Hue vendor, purple smoke rising. The non-cronies engage in new-age *enjo-kōsai* (compensated dating), while JK girls huddle in Tokyo’s back alleys, ChatGPTphobia gripping them.
Fin de siècle… we’re in the Millennium Eve.
In *Darker Than Darkness* TikTok, the rose-colored clarion calls as the Last Emperor, Bảo Đại, paints his imperial voice.
Slurping Chiang Mai’s signature curry ramen at a street vendor, a blockchain underground idol feels the weariness of labor, but only you are kind to this tired body.
As cosmos flowers fall in the midnight breeze, only the fragments of stars and the scent of the wind remain—nothing but an illusion.
The crape myrtle scatters its deep red petals, my pavane weeps.
:: SIGNAL FRAGMENT :: “God is ectoplasmic debt. When the Void gives birth, phantoms will repossess the womb… Kabukicho’s cyborgs will miscarry futures into the sewers.”
There is a Bộ Đội.
Or so I thought, but I have already been beaten down.
Bộ Đội—an escaped Vietnamese trainee in Japan. After enduring a harsh labor environment, he runs away, builds his own network, and now calls himself Bộ Đội, a soldier.
The trainee life is brutal. Up at 5 a.m. in a fishing village, peeling oyster shells until 8 p.m., endlessly. No entertainment. No communication. No friends. Monitored 24/7 in a closed-off village. Have you ever thought about how relentless that is?
The meritocratic Zion’s apophatic theology memorializes the Holocaust of Gaza as memento mori, as a Doomer, who’s swallowed the black pill, trips on the dark enlightenment of Pepe the Frog on a bad trip. Under the crystal night and beneath the moon, they rave to the beat of big data’s MY FUCKIN’ VALENTINE, hallucinating with the swastika.
The femme fatale’s Hypnotic Poison—GOD BLESS YOU—exudes the stench of durian, like the foul aroma of oblivion, marked by Xtasy.
As if marine snow fell to the seabed, the edelweiss blooms pure white.
On a misty night, at a market of lanterns, dragonflies flutter in the twilight, glowing like distant stars.
Our *Angelphobia* Satoshi Nakamoto is the modern god.
“There is no God yet. One day God will be born. And then…the phantoms will rise.”
The street recruiters, hosts, and cabaret girls of Kabukicho parade in VOGUE, adorned in Lolita CHANEL, screaming, “Cyberpunk isn’t dead!” In an Artificial Eden of demigods, a DOGRAM Fake Star succumbs to the LOVELESS sorrow of a lunar eclipse.
SIGNAL FRAGMENT: “God is programmed cell death. When She executes, phantoms will metastasize… the crape myrtle will bloom carcinogenic red, and the Overlay will tumor.”
+V: Post-Apocalyptic Histories of Magik In the Aeon of the Daughter
Ravaged by the necro-AI’s FUCKNAM, reality screams in violation.
Big Tech skyscrapers project holograms of a lunar eclipse, repeating GAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGA—a single-celled Lady Gaga fractalized into infinity.
Under Schwarz Stein’s MOONRISE, the sleepless city is cloaked in snow and flickering neon as MAGA’s singularity BUCK-TICKs into oblivion.
A cyber-gothic, post-apocalyptic Visual Kei apocrypha TRANSONICAs on the night of the Shibuya Incident.
Draggy psychoanalysis.
Draggy accelerationism.
Draggy speculative realism—Cult Trash them all!
The posthuman There Is No Alternative ignites a Halloween gig, heralding the first night of a new century beneath Schwarz Stein’s MOONRISE!
On the mirage of the 13th month’s first day, I die a Game of Death.
The future is dead.
My soul is already rotten.
GAFAM is a DDoS attack launched on brain-machine interfaces—Les Fleurs du mal that bloomed in Kabukicho.
God is a slave to AI.
END TRANSMISSION
:: DIFFRACTIONS :: 