They tell you to trust the science—
but only the science
they’ve sponsored,
peer-reviewed by the same boys
on Epstein’s guest list.
Your phone listens.
Your fridge judges.
Your smart TV recommends antidepressants
after watching you binge ten hours of apocalyptic Netflix
and a YouTuber who sells conspiracy with a Colgate smile.
Truth?
Truth’s a museum piece.
It’s roped off.
Guarded by identity politics,
cancel threats, and
“terms and conditions apply.”
We’re post-fact,
post-shame,
post-human.
Everyone’s got a platform,
but no one’s got a soul.
The revolution was digitized,
streamed in 4K,
and monetized before the first protest sign was dry.
Even dissent is a brand now.
Rebellion has a merch line.
They sell Che Guevara shirts
at Walmart—
made by children
in Bangladesh.
This isn’t 1984.
It’s worse.
It’s 1984 with a rewards program.
Smile for your social credit score.
Be kind.
Be inclusive.
Be quiet.
Meanwhile, the architects
—the real ones—
the lizard-brained titans in tailored suits—
don’t pick sides.
They fund them.
They keep you fighting over pronouns
while they print the next bubble
and buy the next election
with a wry smirk and a Cayman account.
They know you’ll scroll.
They know you’ll share.
They know you’ll scream at the screen
while your dinner is delivered
by a man who can’t afford his insulin
because the app took 30%.
Freedom’s just a filter now.
Choice? A hallucination.
Welcome to the Strawberry Fields, friend.
Forever.
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