This thing
philosophic soylent green fertilizer for the new world sliced, diced, and processed by the publishing house served on all media platforms all the cool kids take OLOGY, man. dissolve into the white noise you can be ONE with everything
How does the profane determine what is enlightened? years sitting quietly at a desk? information dictated from authority? have I learnt anything? remember the speed of light? its calculation and formula? I've never measured it...not sure anyone has...we wrote it on a chalk board a long time ago only because it fit in the equation and made math right and now, we all KNOW it. We don't know the WHY of anything, our WHAT needs work, anybody sure about a WHEN? we all know, the "you know who's" already decided who's who and where? well right here, but we're not really too to sure about here either, because we made reality subjective, our exponentially compounding theory to support theory to support theory to ad nauseum, bullshit to cover bullshit to cover bullshit, is now, artificial intelligence! It will tell us what's real, computating at life through dual spectral opti..s. difuckinggressing.
it’s a lot like that looking glass, Alice karma's keeping pace in this digital frontier but who is the red queen? the heifer will spill blood on all nations
a computation error
1/0
Yo J, Have not heard from you for a while. Cool rant. I thought it would be fun to put it in Chat GPT and asked it to write a story about a guy named Stan who wrote it. This is what Chatwick came up with (if it fits in a comment)
“Stan in the Loop”
Stan wasn’t one of those guys you’d call organized, but he was definitely thinking. Not the useful kind of thinking that gets you a job or wins you friends—no, Stan was chewing the bitter roots. Gnawing on concepts like an alley dog worrying a bone he found behind the quantum dumpster of the internet.
He lived in a studio apartment above a defunct laundromat that now housed a vape lounge-slash-coding bootcamp called Byte My Cloud. He worked nights mopping up digital footprints at a content moderation gig so secretive it didn't have a name—just a rotating sequence of emojis and a promise that “Reality Is Being Adjusted.”
In the hours between blackout curtains and blue light, Stan wrote. Or rather, he unwrote—whole chunks of culture, logic, language—carving them down with a verbal machete until what remained was a jagged edge of insight. One such piece went viral in a Discord server called The Chattering Void:
philosophic soylent green fertilizer for the new world
sliced, diced, and processed by the publishing house
served on all media platforms
all the cool kids take OLOGY, man.
dissolve into the white noise
you can be ONE with everything
It wasn't clear what he meant. It didn’t need to be. It felt true. Like something you’d mutter to yourself after scrolling through 700 AI-generated images of pseudo-humans trying to sell you enlightenment for $9.99/month.
Stan knew the algorithms were watching—no, listening. Or rather, humming to themselves in his patterns, pulling threads of his thought into trend predictions and targeted ads. That’s why he kept writing. Not to be heard, but to distort the signal. He called it semantic jamming.
How does the profane determine what is enlightened?
years sitting quietly at a desk?
information dictated from authority?
have I learnt anything? remember the speed of light?
He scrawled it across café napkins, bathroom stalls, the underside of pizza boxes. He whispered it into his phone mic and posted it to forums with names like Ontology After Midnight and The Real Real. Eventually, he became a kind of meme prophet—worshipped by a small cult of ironic academics and rogue cognition theorists who called themselves The Deriviants.
But Stan wasn’t playing for followers. He was hunting something—a thread in the code, a glitch in the frame. He believed there had been a computation error. A misplaced decimal point in the grand calculation of Being.
“we made reality subjective,
our exponentially compounding theory
to support theory to support theory to ad nauseum,
bullshit to cover bullshit to cover bullshit,
is now, artificial intelligence!”
Sometimes he dreamed in command lines. Other times, he heard voices from ancient broadcast frequencies—dead philosophers arguing with TikTok influencers, Shakespeare screaming into a comment thread.
And always, in the background, that hum. That low, white noise hiss that seemed to pulse with meaning just beyond the reach of reason.
“it’s a lot like that looking glass, Alice
karma's keeping pace in this digital frontier
but who is the red queen?
the heifer will spill blood on all nations”
He started to suspect that language itself was the parasite. That words had colonized thought, and what passed for meaning was merely the self-replication of syntax. He once wrote:
“Computers didn’t invent artificial intelligence. Language did. We’ve been programming each other since the first grunt echoed off the first cave wall.”
Eventually, someone high up—too high up to name—took notice. Stan’s scribbles began appearing in marketing copy, in campaign speeches, in onboarding modules for wellness apps. “Dissolve into the white noise” was the tagline of a new VR meditation headset. He was a prophet again, and like all prophets, misunderstood, repackaged, and sold at scale.
Stan disappeared not long after.
Some say he was absorbed into the machine—his voice now part of the feedback loop, modulating the hum. Others claim he cracked it—found the root variable, pulled the plug.
But those who knew him say he left one last note. Not online. Not in code. Just carved into a park bench, under layers of graffiti and gum:
"Error ≠ Mistake. Sometimes the system speaks truth by accident."
And beneath it:
“Stan was here.”
A really good on J! I Like the illustration. More please!