You will be told to keep it down. You will be called edgy, angry, reckless, dangerous, misinformed. You will be warned to think before you speak, but the only ones worrying about your volume will be those who fear your voice. Truth is treated as noise by those who live securely behind their own proof of lies. We’ve been told who to hate, we’ve been told who to trust, we’ve been told when to mourn, we’ve been told what to fear. And with each order, they’ve made the world quieter, emptier, and easier to control. A country where anger, grief, heartbreak, and dissent are classified as symptoms instead of signals. Turn it up until they know your name. Shatter the windows. Wake the neighbors. They tell us to be disarmed. Let’s make sure they can’t sleep.
It did not sprinkle moral disinfectant on your habits while you slept.
January 1st is not a beginning. It’s a receipt.
If you were moving toward something in October, you’re already closer now.
If you were lying to yourself in November, you brought that lie with you—carry-on, not checked.
Resolutions are charming in the way apologies are charming when they arrive late and rehearsed.
They sound noble.
They feel ceremonial.
They allow us to pretend that discipline is seasonal and courage can be scheduled.
But character doesn’t wait for fireworks.
Anyone who truly meant it—the running, the quitting, the writing, the calling back, the drinking less or loving better—quietly started when no one was watching. Usually on a random Tuesday. Usually without an announcement. Usually without permission.
That’s the part no one sells you.
Change doesn’t arrive with a slogan. It creeps in through boredom, discomfort, repetition.
It shows up looking unremarkable and asks if you’re willing to be consistent instead of inspired.
So keep your resolutions if you like. They’re harmless theater.
But don’t confuse the theater for the work.
If you want to begin, begin now.
If you already began, don’t stop just because the calendar caught up.
January doesn’t make you new.
It merely exposes whether you were honest before the countdown.
And that, inconveniently, is the only resolution that ever mattered.
the day after Ruby attempted suicide by banging his head on the walls of his jail cell.
Gather close, children of the static.
Tonight’s sermon is brought to you by the Un-United States Government,
that eternal pharmacy of the damned,
and by one Dr. Louis Jolyon West —
Jolly, for short.
A nickname that tells you everything and nothing, which is exactly how the good doctor liked his patients.
Now… I’m not here to tell you whether Charles Manson was a monster or a kid who wrote bad folk songs until the nation decided to turn him into an exorcism ritual for everything it feared about itself.
That’s not my job.
My job is to peel the wallpaper off history and show you the termite tunnels beneath.
Follow me.
Picture Jolly West in his tweed jacket —
a man who looked like he’d apologize
before cutting your consciousness into strips.
A man who weaponized curiosity
and called it compassion.
He’d inject you with questions
before the syringe even touched your skin.
They say he treated broken minds.
I say he manufactured them wholesale.
He was the kind of doctor
who could hand you a glass of water
and three days later
you’d be confessing crimes you didn’t commit
in languages you didn’t speak.
Some say Manson spent time in his orbit.
Some say coincidence is just God hiding the blueprints.
Some say neither Jolly nor Charlie ever met.
And some—
some of us just ask the one question
you’re not supposed to ask in America:
Who benefits when a nation goes mad?
Look around.
Chaos is an industry.
Fear is a commodity.
And the human mind—
well, that’s just clay for the sculptors
who sit in the windowless rooms
three floors below the truth.
But tonight…
tonight we honor Charles.
Not the killer,
but the songwriter he might have been
before someone decided
his chords needed more dissonance.
I imagine him strumming in some halfway house,
dreaming of fame
while a doctor in a lab coat
scribbled notes about “suggestibility thresholds”
and “malleability of identity.”
It doesn’t matter what’s true.
It matters what’s plausible.
And America…
America has a way of making the plausible feel like prophecy.
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.
They always called it a rabbit hole like it was some playful spiral, a psychedelic slide into harmless madness. But this hole stinks. Like burned paper and blood on old currency squeezed together by melting rubberbands. Like the back alley of a failed empire.
I didn’t fall — I was pushed. By smiling men in tailored suits, by ads that knew my name before I did, by the unblinking god-eye of surveillance wrapped in convenience. They called it progress. I called it a muzzle with a firmware update.
The rabbit? He was half-rat, half-fed. A jittery informant with bugs stitched into his fur. He sold me a map in exchange for my fingerprints. Told me, “You’re not gonna like what you find, but you already paid the toll.”
We passed the Mad Hatter — ex-Blackrock, now peddling immortality through neural lace and lithium smiles. His tea was laced with lithium, too. Served in a chipped mug etched with OWN NOTHING. BE HAPPY. Said free will was a glitch in the old system, and the new patch fixed it. “Congratulations. You’re cured of choice.”
The Cheshire Cat was just teeth. Rows and rows of them — each one a microphone, a camera, a contract. He spoke in brand slogans and court settlements. His grin was sponsored by Pfizer. And Meta. And Lockheed.
Deeper still: a hallway made of CRT TVs, each screen playing a different lie on loop: Weapons of mass destruction. Flatten the curve. Hope and change. Trust the science. God Bless the Troops. Epstein died alone. The vote was secure. Everything is fine.
The Queen of Hearts ran an NGO now, dressed in recycled virtue-signaling and diversity hires. She didn’t shout off with their heads anymore — she just clicked shadowban and let the algorithm do the killing.
I found a room. Locked. Inside: documents stamped TOP SECRET in 1965, pages soaked in oil and redacted like a priest’s confession. Operation Northwoods. COINTELPRO. Project Stargate. And something called “The Adjustment Bureau.” No files, just a single line: THEY MOVE FASTER THAN YOU CAN THINK.
And that’s when I saw it — not in ink, but in code.
A string of data, buried like a landmine: Jack McCarthy. Snapchat geolocation. Aron Miranda. Proximity trigger. Behavioral prediction confidence: 93.6%. Outcome: Fatal. Status: Acceptable Risk.
I stopped breathing. Not out of fear, but because I finally understood: It wasn’t a coincidence. It was an execution. Sanctioned by silence, written by code, delivered by convenience.
This isn’t a rabbit hole. It’s Hell’s sewer system. A machine that eats your sons and calls it a glitch. A system that makes you watch, and then tells you you’re crazy for screaming.
