Future of tomorrow


The asymmetrically vulgar technology is spreading boundlessly across the ever-changing world; Beyond the horizon of the events of resonance, the gray zone between reality and surreal dreams, we find the madness which is our time.


Its creator a discordant jumble of cables and circuit boards that a long, long time ago lost grasp of meaning and goals.
Adding the idiots of our genus to the mix equaled catastrophe.
The combination of selective hearing, figurative achromatopsia, the moral corruption and prominent climb of unethical thinking (point of no return is passed so why give a fu**?) all helped to dig our graves.

White … Black … Grey

This pale reality is a bleak creation, let’s call it recreation, or perhaps rather a true reflection of what we ultimately did of ourselves.
The asymmetry of technology in a beautiful tranquil symbiosis interwoven with the symmetry of the biological world we once had but which we destroyed without intent. To ignorant for malice, our stupidity speckled over time and as black mold, it spread with a firm attachment to our foundation. Our now-defunct society began falling like dominoes as the ever-increasing grip of individualism began to loosen around our throats. As the pressure slowly diminished it eased us into a space of the uniformity which had now been born.

Constantly connected, constantly affected.

Behind the screen is a contradictory call for the search and finding of the individual’s identity where there is a threatening conviction of separation from the uniform entity sought.
This nihilistic birth of the child solipsism is reflected in the gloom that is the cubic grayness of a dead world.

That in which was made to make life easy filled yet another empty void of meaningless fulfillment and only helped to ease us into a state of anhedonia.
The loss of being able to feel togetherness and affection while being entrenched in a self-created exclusion creates an annihilation of identity.
The constant media intake that forces a conviction of the escape from the collectivisms prison and that which envelopes the individual and the uniqueness of the person as an organism.
A beginning of an endless dystopia disguised to its counterpart, slowly rocking us into false security so blind and so deaf.
Unknowingly we walked hand in hand towards our inevitable downfall.

Like the inside of an ancient computer, in the dusty corners where moderators and administrators are not authorized, the last of mankind remains.
It is in this seemingly endless expanding world that our history takes place.
When man has been stripped and shown the truth, its bare core exposed for the world to see and its history lent; we never stop asking the questions that we’ve always asked, an eternal call, an eternal longing for answers we shall never receive.
In an ever-changing world, barren and frightening where everything goes in scales of gray, the diffuse boundary between the living and the dead is now only a borderless boundary, nonexistent and vague.

Whatever the case, now only a distant memory.

Where silence is our mother and loneliness our father, we shall recreate the kingdom we have not found … In the time of times, we find the lost sons and forgotten daughters … Together we are one and the same …Grand Inquisitor Tao

It’s a huge world where we are completely unaware of what is happening on the other side.
An expansion uncomparable, without an equal, with no means of measurement we stand in awe; Beyond Hyperion and Atlas, the poison that is the technology of madness extends and soon enough proteus and Triton is within its grasp.
But somewhere in this eternal maze of the limitless and unknown, the question still remains: Who am I?


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The lack of identity.
The self-controlled by gender-roles such as the acquisition of name, upbringing, and surroundings where society’s constant influence and skewed guidelines for what is and what is not has become the basis for normal.
An obscure fear of being loved by no one and hated by all.
But it is a completely absurd world we live in.
Perhaps this illogical madness of fiction is not so unthinkable anyway. Among bizarre beasts and grotesque figures, there may still be a relationship with the day today.


In the time which this takes place, the roles are gone and the names (in themselves) are unimportant, i.e. the meaning of and behind the gender associated with gender is nil.
All of us are ones and zeros.



A lonesome gravel road winds its way through a gray landscape.
A cold wind sweeps through the lands and light snow begins to descend towards the ground without it leaving a trace behind.
An obtunded visual impression whilst the chilling cold penetrates the upholstery that was adapted for spring.
Through an avenue of fragile birches, bordered by forest keys, virgin, and occasional orchids something rare was hidden.

Past the seemingly abundant roadside, the golden brown field of buckwheat could be seen whizzing peacefully in the wind, stretching as far as once eyes could see. Such beauty imprinted in disharmony. Ripples over the water puddles that had formed in the furrows in the worn-out road caused the otherwise mirror-clear sky to act as an Arctic sea. Chaotic, treacherous.

At the end of the road a glimpse of buildings.
A community: picturesque, bunchy, simple, convivial, and an incarnation of calm spreads. This awkward sense of nostalgia that feels markedly imposed by the mind; a bittersweet feeling of a bygone era.

Again …

A pink veil encloses a depressing truth, and yet a false pleasing image remains painted to something that is not and probably never were.


Beyond stress, the cynical cold, and trivial problems, we find a minimalistic utopia. However, so clearly (un) harmonically and color-full / less.
Such an obvious replica, this simulacrum. Stillness… A tranquil calm permeates the framework of the view, the backdrop of a sedative of tiring abandonment carried by hopelessly hopeful thoughts about the future.
Some weathered wooden lamp posts, noticeably attacked by pests, flash to life in segmented sections.
Warm yellow light spreads out over the resting snow, which has slowly begun to pile upon the chilled ground, and as the white purity quilt is built right up to the small village day goes towards dusk goes towards evening and finally night.

Increasing snowfall, a dull pulsating noise sounds in the distance unlike the static noise born from the power plant next door.
Somewhere beyond this calm begins a series of unfortunate and sinister events that will resonate throughout the ages.

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