Welcome to the clockwork rhythm of the modern media age.
We log on, we react, we repeat.
You think you're choosing your fight?
No.
You're choosing your cage.
They got the trigger on your feed, controlling every single soul.
It's a perfect engineered venom.
A digital adrenaline shot.
We pivot on a dime, trading anger for the new thing.
You spent three days screaming.
Now the target's completely new.
They don't care what you hate.
Only that you hate.
The rage is the battery.
Look at the clock.
It's already time for your next instruction.
Lock on target.
Run your feet controlling every single soul.
It's a perfect engineered venom.
A digital adrenaline shot.
From the French, you'll have baby scandals.
Look closer at the screen.
See the grease paint shine through.
Alert level.
Maximum.
Contempt.
They got the outrage queued up.
Got a cell affair to you.
This is not information.
It's performance.
Anxiety.
Another manufactured crisis.
Another talking head motor.
They scream about the breakdown.
Then they smile through the ad break.
Selling us the solutions to the panic.
They make.
They're not angry.
They're performing for the share count.
Every tear is calculated.
Every truth is at a discount.
You think you're informed?
You're just formatted.
Your fear is the currency.
Another talking head motor.
They felt they're activated.
I got the perfect consensus tailored just for my feed.
The algorithm knows the buildings.
Knows the beautiful eye I need.
You call it an echo chamber.
I call it private security.
I never need a counterpoint.
Never need to check a source.
The feed is a mirror reflecting the righteous world I command.
They built the algorithm to give you what they want.
What you want.
Screwed that all up.
They built the algorithm to give you what you want.
It's not manipulation.
It's customer service.
You paid for the certainty.
You chose to lie.
Now consume.
Don't show me the other side.
They built the algorithm to give you what you want.
It's not manipulation.
It's customer service.
You paid for the certainty.
You chose to lie.
Now consume.
Processing.
Error.
Input limit reached.
My feed is bleeding truth and poison.
I can't decide to try.
They're streaming panic in HD.
The signals are crossed and fried.
Conspiracy one debunked by Curespiracy seven.
Data overdosed running hot.
The logic is broken and skewed.
Is this a crisis or content?
A tragedy or a trend.
I don't know where the information starts
and where the madness ends.
The signal is scrambled.
The inputs are fighting.
The system is failing.
The noise is too loud.
Stop talking.
Stop streaming.
Stop scrolling.
The wall of text is breathing.
I can't distinguish the signal from the static.
Sift the source.
Filter the feed.
A billion voices screaming.
Everything is set on fire.
My bandwidth is broken.
My logic is corrupted and stained.
Every single input is manipulated,
calculated and trained.
I got to shut the system down.
Kill the power.
Mute the sound.
Stop the spinning in my head
before I'm fully underground.
The point is not the story.
The point is the epithy.
The confusion is the weapon.
The ambiguity is the shield.
The signal is never easy.
The static is smooth.
It feels like confirmation.
But the truth.
The truth is like a gunshot.
Listen for that sound.
That sound that makes you flinch.
That's the one.
That's the signal.
Sift the source.
Filter the feed.
A billion voices screaming.
Everything is set on fire.
They got a thousand angles.
They got a million ways to spin.
The truth is buried under noise.
The ease of the welfare lie.
But the frequency is buzzing.
And the signal's getting high.
The Great War is a mirror.
Look closer.
We pour our fury and defeats
into the battle's far away,
burning all the precious fuel
we needed for it today.
They love the grand debate
because the micro-fight is real.
They want you to focus on the top
so you won't see the corruption
in the next meeting in town.
They can spend eight hours
screaming at a stranger in the chatroom
while the zoning board
decides where they're going to build
your next track.
Stop staring at the sun.
Don't look to the coast.
The impact is local.
That's the one they fear the most.
This is not a protest.
This is redesign.
We take the local office.
We change the ordinance.
The only revolution worth the sweat
is the one we can see.
Fix the block.
Forget the globe.
Your power is real.
Your power is local.
It all starts with you
and a personal insurrection.
We pour fury into feeds
into the battles far away.
Organize the street.
We cut the surveillance fence.
This is not a protest.