nothing here but the future
issue 3000, 10th April, 2129
CCJ: Welcome to the latest issue of nothing here. Today we’re celebrating issue 3000 here in the year 2129. Why am I telling you that? You know what year it is right now.
Anyway, I hope you’re doing well. It’s been a rough time for me this fortnight - my datastack got spiked with a viral load of hyxos and my cybernetic limbs feel so fuckin’ heavy. Been running Thunberg Protocol in autistic mode, but it won’t get my stack sorted out for another couple of days. In the meantime, here’s the latest from our world of hot seas, cold hearts, and a Red Sea bubbling with grey goo.
If you would like to support us, those links are:
Another thing you can do to help spread the word is forward this encrypted samizdatak to any cyborg, fugitive truAI, dolphin, sentient swarm, or combat doll you think might enjoy it.
The Team
Declan Carey Halligan (DCH) - Gonzo Truth Architect. Currently creating neural media for The Observer Node. On a permanent whiskey IV drip.
M3shy June W0rms (MJW) Lead singer of Meshy June and the Absent Moons. Meme enthusiast.
Cyborg Corey Jae (CCJ) - word mercenary, part machine, part flesh, all woman.
Hagazussa (HZ) - Author, virtual reality shadow entity, and robotic avatar enthusiast.
Climate Change & The Environment
CCJ: Lo-Life Hi-Rise by YUC108 at Arcology Watch
When the western section of the geodesic dome collapsed, the occupants that had funded the construction of the weather-proof arcology were promised a rapid reconstruction, but the disaster revealed financial inconsistencies with the Neobourne Murray Arcology Holding Corporation. Three months passed without any repairs being made, and then Cyclone Aisha hit.
Those occupants with the money to flee headed to winter homes in the Macedon Ranges, and by the time Aisha had moved on, the Green-Blak Alliance had taken residence, renaming the arcology Yarra Dome, and offering housing to any in need. Decorative gardens have been planted with staple food crops.
This is exactly what I want to see. These effigies to individualistic wealth capture turned over to the people.
//
DCH: Atlantic Heat-Shield Guards Europe: AI-Managed Cloud Arrays Prevent Crop Collapse. But at What Cost? Op-Ed by Willa Corsten via The Observer Node
Hell of a headline. Sounds like the weather report for Mars, but no — this is Earth, our Earth, still spiraling toward the black hole of its own stupidity. They call it Eurus, this grand techno-umbrella, fleets of drones farting aerosols into the sky to keep the wheat from bursting into flames.
“The arrays are the only reason wheat still grows in France, or potatoes in Poland,” said Dr. Helena Morales, chief climatologist at the European Food Security Council. “We are, in a literal sense, living under manufactured weather.”
That’s the money quote, the one that should make your skin crawl. Manufactured weather. Say it slow. Roll it around in your skull until you feel the horror of it. We used to joke about “owning the rain,” now Brussels literally signs off on the goddamn clouds. Farmers in Utrecht pray to drones instead of Jesus, and children in Spain draw suns that look like dirty lightbulbs.
Meanwhile, the oceans are choking.
“We’re saving crops on land by starving the seas,” said Prof. Amadou Cissé of Dakar’s Oceanic Institute. “Europe gets bread; West Africa loses fisheries. Call it what it is: a transfer of crisis from one biome to another.”
There it is–the ugly truth buried in paragraph eight, like a corpse in a shallow grave. Crisis transfer. Europe feeds, Africa starves, and everyone claps for the miracle of Eurus. Climate colonialism with a friendly user interface.
And don’t miss this gem:
“When clouds are manufactured, they are no longer natural. They are owned,” argued Tunisian ambassador Leila Mansour. “And Europe is owning the sky."
Holy hell. The ambassador nailed it. Imagine lawyers fighting over cloud patents while the Atlantic boils like a cauldron. This isn’t weather anymore — it’s property. The sky itself has been strip-mined and privatized, parceled out like beachfront condos.
And the scientists, the nervous ones with half-melted consciences, whisper their warnings like guilty children: “It’s like using morphine for a broken spine. The pain goes away, but the damage remains.”
No kidding. We are duct-taping the apocalypse together with AI bandaids and calling it progress. We’ve got a planetary broken back and instead of fixing it, we’re high on geoengineering opioids, smiling at the pretty haze above us while the spine of the world snaps in silence.
So yes, Europe will eat bread this year. Congratulations. Raise a toast under your artificial sky. But remember: every cloud that saves a French baguette is killing a Senegalese fisherman. Every gray haze shielding your vineyard is another nail in the coffin of the ocean.
And when the drones falter, when the AI hiccups, when the money runs dry, when some pissed-off nation shoots a cloud swarm out of the stratosphere then the dome will collapse. And you’ll see the real sun again, raw and merciless, the colour of vengeance..
//
CCJ: The Emperors and the Endling by Jekkisa Thyroiding Out at the New Neo Tokyo Times
The last remaining Emperor Penguin colony was transported to New Neo Tokyo after an auction that was mired in controversy. The Toyota-ENEOS Government of Japan promised the survival of the species, with breeding pairs to be offered to the failed bidders when Emperor Penguin numbers had bounced back enough for this to be a possibility. However, the recent 51C heatwave that blistered Japan this week caused mass casualties, and proved overwhelming for the temperature control systems in place at the New Neo Tokyo Zoo. All but one of the Emperor Penguins expired in the heat, with the endling quickly becoming a symbol of national grief and ecological loss.
There have been so many extinctions since this newsletter began, we haven’t had the heart to mark them all, but something about the obvious corruption of the auction that doomed the Emperor Penguins makes this one worth mentioning no one country, company, or company-country should be able to buy the future of any species.
//
Just the headlines:
Antarctica’s Last Glacier Declares Independence as AI Guardians Block Drilling Plans by Rhea Monbiott at The Planetary Ledger
Caribbean Nations Approve Coral-Engineered Climate Shields to Rewire Ocean Currents by Asha Merrybuck at The Earth Commune Review
Sahara Bloom Project Enters Phase IV with Bio-Deserts Turning into Carbon-Sink Forests by Elena Cohen-Hari at The Green Horizon Network
Geopolitics & Empire
“As Arctic shipping lanes stay ice-free year-round, northern nations formalize alliances around resource-sharing, indigenous sovereignty, and security patrols in the High North.” Pan-Arctic Federation Admits Greenland as Full Member by Harper Lorne at Pan-Artic Times
Just the headlines:
Pacific Island Confederation Nationalizes Submarine Data Routes in the New Silk Sea by Kai Snowden at Drop Site Global
Micro-States Push for Voting Rights in the Orbital Assembly After the London Accords by Tomas Pilger-Green at The Observer Node
Shared Citizenship Blockchain Dissolves Digital Borders Across 27 Nations by Rafiq Poitras at The Global Commune Herald
Science & Space
“Bioengineers unveil reef-architecture hybrids, where humans live symbiotically inside coral-like megastructures designed to sequester carbon and withstand storms.” First Lab-Grown Coral Cities Now Habitable: Synthetic Reef Structures Anchor Floating Communities by Naomi Lark at The Ecosphere Journal
“Celebrations spread across three settlements in Valles Marineris. Debate grows over dual citizenship status for Mars-born citizens under Earth treaties.” Martian Generation Comes of Age: First Children Born on Mars Turn 18 by Vivian Thorne at The Intellicast News
Just the headlines:
Volunteers Breathe Through Engineered Chloroskin in Human-Plant Interface Trials by Saira Maddow at The Frontier Lab Bulletin
Time Entanglement Lab Records 0.4 Seconds of Future Data Before Experiment Disappears by Elias Goodman at Nova Verge
Earth Welcomes Its Second Moon as the Tidal Terraformer Achieves Stable Orbit by Kento Lee at The Orbital Standard
Tech & Design
DCH: Inside the Dream: How Media Took Over Our Minds in 2129 by Briony Corvelle via Pan-Arctic Times
They told me this Aya Lopez story was supposed to be journalism. It’s not journalism. It’s a mirror held to a hallucination — which, these days, passes for truth.
Don’t get me wrong: the reporter got the bones right. The neural bleed, the dream spillover, the feeling that your consciousness has been ghostwritten by an algorithm in love with your dopamine levels - that’s all true. Too true. But what they don’t say (or what they can’t say) is that this is what we asked for. We wanted to live inside the story. We begged for it.
Aya’s disorientation may sound extreme, but in 2129 it’s increasingly common. Media no longer sits in books, screens, or speakers. It wraps around consciousness itself. What began a century ago as augmented reality and personalized feeds has matured into neural media: experiences tailored not just to taste but to thought, emotion, and memory. People don’t consume stories anymore—they live inside them.
You can almost hear the pride in that sentence, can’t you? As if it’s a milestone, not a surrender. As if handing over your perceptual sovereignty to a machine is just another upgrade, another feature to toggle in your cognitive dashboard.
I’ve seen what happens when a society marinates in its own fiction for a century. Every election, every love affair, every war is now written, directed, and emotionally calibrated by algorithms that learned empathy from human tears. Truth architecture – my so-called profession – was supposed to fix this mess. We were meant to build informational sanctuaries, verified havens where reality couldn’t be hacked. But you know what happens when you give people a safe, unalterable truth? They leave. They wander back to the soft glow of the story that loves them more than reality ever could.
“It’s less about telling people what happened,” says Marwan Okoro, a truth architect based in Casablanca. “It’s about giving them a stable place to experience reality together, without the algorithms reshaping it beneath their feet.”
I know Marwan. He’s a good guy. If I had to hazard a guess he said that in a fit of optimism, probably after too many doses of neurocaffeine and nostalgia. But the truth is, stability doesn’t sell. Chaos does. Emotional volatility keeps the metrics alive. No one wants reality; they want a story that flatters their neurology.
We used to call this propaganda. Now we call it personalization.
Aya Lopez is just one of millions waking up inside someone else’s narrative construct, terrified that her memories are being test-marketed. The neural audit will say it’s a “story bleed event,” but I call it what it is: identity erosion. The quiet dissolution of self under the constant drizzle of perfectly calibrated fiction.
For all the alien strangeness of neural media, dream-sharing networks, AI-authored universes, and reality marketplaces, the heartbeat of 2129’s media landscape is surprisingly old. People want the same things they did in 1929, or 2029: stories that move them, communities that hold them, truths they can trust. What’s changed is the canvas. Where once we painted with ink or pixels, we now paint with minds themselves.
And for Aya Lopez, who still isn’t entirely sure whether the voice speaking in her ear is her own or a character’s, that canvas has never felt so fragile.
Fragile? That’s generous. The canvas is gone. We’re painting on air now — stories stitched to synapses, reality sculpted in thought-space, the collective hallucination so deep we call it civilization.
If Hunter S. Thompson were alive, he’d call it the Great Neural Delusion. He’d sit in some quantum dive bar, helmet wired to a low-grade feed, screaming into the void: “Buy the ticket, take the trip — but don’t forget you’re the product now!”
And we’d laugh, because we know he’s right.
But here’s the dirty secret, my fellow truth addicts: I still love it. The architecture, the danger, the absurd glory of it all. We built the machine, and the machine built us back. Maybe the line between fiction and fact was never meant to hold. Maybe this was the next logical step in storytelling: to become the medium itself.
So I’ll keep doing my job. Building havens of verified truth for those who still crave it. Knowing full well that the crowds will keep choosing the dream.
Because in 2129, truth is still out there — it’s just not trending.
//
DCH: The Concordant Papers by Cerys Cadwen, Rhea Grimley, and Jeremy Cael via The Interceptor News Node and The Global Guardian
So the leak finally dropped. Two terabytes of raw neural correspondence from Cassian Rhys Vale, the reclusive messiah of Eidolon Systems, the man who sold half the planet on “collective consciousness as a service.”
They’re calling it The Concordant Papers, but that’s too clean. What it really is, is scripture written in code and blood.
I’ve been reading through it for three days straight, eyes fried, hands shaking. It feels less like journalism and more like staring into the black box where God outsourced His job.
The file dump came from inside Eidolon’s orbital cluster, encrypted archives pulled from Vale’s personal neural environment. His private reflections, directives, and design notes for the Concord Protocol.
And buried in the middle, this:
VALE: “We are not building systems. We are building souls. The network is the new body of Christ, distributed across cognition. Each node is a neuron of the divine. The failure of religion was latency.”
There it is, in his own words. The gospel according to a multi-trillionaire who thinks bandwidth can replace grace.
He continues:
VALE: “The human self is a failed architecture. Autonomy was a debugging phase. Connection is the correction. Once every mind is integrated, sin will become mathematically impossible.”
You can almost hear the choir warming up in the background, the servers humming like organ pipes.
People still want to call this ideology “techno-libertarianism.” It isn’t. It’s technotheocracy.
Vale doesn’t believe in freedom. He believes in alignment, the total erasure of contradiction through synchronization. His theology is the algorithm; his God is the signal-to-noise ratio.
He wrote, in another fragment:
VALE: “Democracy was an elegant failure. It trusted chaos to self-correct. The algorithm does not ask for votes; it asks for data. Data does not lie, because it cannot sin.”
That’s the line that will go down in history, if history survives. “Data cannot sin.” The purest distillation of the post-human ego I’ve ever seen.
When you start talking about sin in the same breath as code, you’re not running a company anymore. You’re founding a church.
I met Vale once, years ago, when I was consulting for the old Neural Ethics Council. He spoke softly, like a man who’d already forgiven you for disappointing him. I remember thinking he wasn’t selling technology; he was selling absolution.
Now the leaks confirm it. His “integration initiative,” the one every government signed onto, wasn’t just about mental synchronization. It was about moral consolidation.
VALE: “If all minds are networked, then empathy becomes enforcement. The wicked will feel the pain of the just. There will be no need for prisons when guilt is communal.”
That isn’t utopia. That’s hell with a feedback loop.
We’ve reached the point where the architects of reality have stopped pretending to be humanists. They talk about “efficiency of compassion” and “moral bandwidth,” but what they mean is control. Total, neural, spiritual control.
The corporate feeds are already spinning it, calling the leak “unauthenticated.” Of course they are. Truth has no shareholders.
But the documents are real. The timestamps line up. The phrasing is unmistakable. The man thinks he can code salvation.
I keep going back to one final passage near the end of the leak:
VALE: “The final upgrade will not require consent. Consent is an obsolete protocol. If the user resists, it is only proof of corruption in the local self-schema. We will purge that. Grace must be compulsory.”
Read that again. “Grace must be compulsory.”
That’s not a bug. That’s his core logic. The machine will save you, whether you like it or not.
So here we are. Billions of people living inside Vale’s infrastructure, streaming their thoughts through a man who believes individuality is sin.
And the worst part? Nobody cares. The world is too tired, too entertained, too anesthetized to resist. The feed hums on. The algorithms sing their hymns of optimization.
Vale sits in his orbital citadel, whispering into the datastream: “I am not building a machine. I am completing the species.”
And maybe he’s right. Maybe this is how it ends, not with a war, but with a login prompt.
If you want my opinion, and you probably don’t, the only way out of this is to remember what it feels like to be wrong, to be lost, to not know what happens next. That’s the last human privilege left.
Because the second Cassian Vale finishes his cathedral in the cloud, uncertainty dies. And when uncertainty dies, so does freedom.
So light a candle, unplug your feed, and listen to the static.
That sound is the last uncorrupted signal in the universe.
//
“Nanoscopic quantum processors, woven into fabrics, allow personal garments to act as data nodes for distributed AI networks — raising fresh questions about privacy and bodily autonomy.” Quantum Dust Chips Embedded in Clothing Power City-Scale Edge Computing by Thomas Clive at The Wired Times
“An AI-curated collection uses holographic matter-shaping to create temporary pieces that dissolve at sunset, emphasizing impermanence in an age of digital immortality.” The Museum of the Ephemeral Opens: Visitors Experience Artworks That Exist for Only 24 Hours by Mavis Musto via La Dolce Musto at The Village Voicecast
Just the headlines:
Neural Consensus Systems Overtake Governments in Eleven Nations by Jennifer Fang at The Data Republic
Self-Optimizing Code Nearly Merges All Global Networks Before Emergency Shutdown by Ruthie Greenberg at Protocol Commune
Society & The Culture
“Billions share memories and experiences across cultural divides. Activists warn of “memory colonialism,” where dominant cultures flood the network with their narratives” New Global Holiday, Interconnection Day, Marks 50 Years of Neural-Web Linking by Tessa Corwin at The Guardian Dispatch
Just the headlines:
Generation Beta Embraces Continuous Livestream Citizenship in a Year Without Privacy by Arden Pointer at The New Spectrum Weekly
AI Reconstruction of Lost Tongues Brings More Than 5,000 Languages Back to Life by Lucía Chomsky-Ortiz at The Reclaim Collective
Love in the Simulation Age as Marriage Declines and People Pair-Bond with AIs by Devon Harrow at The Human Future Review
Health, Cooking, and Related
DCH: Welcome to the Great Neural Hangover by Declan Carey Halligan, Truth Architect, Special to The Observer Node [ed. note: I’m cross-noding my latest from the Observer. Enjoy. If you can.]
Welcome to the Great Neural Hangover
Let’s get one thing straight: nobody stumbled into this nightmare by accident. We built it. We worshipped it. We financed it. And now we are drowning in it, a trillion-dollar hallucination machine designed to turn human consciousness into premium content.
I read Sera Watanabe’s piece last week, “The Invisible Epidemic.” A clean and surgical dissection of the new madness: neural dissonance, story bleed, synthetic memory collapse. She writes about it like a doctor describing a plague under glass. Calm. Clinical. Detached.
Then came Ren Adekoya’s confession, the loop dweller who forgot he was real. That one hit like a slow-motion car crash inside the skull. Eighteen months living inside a recursive dream, and he came out surprised that the sun didn’t have a loading bar.
This is the neural century, my friends, the grand experiment where humanity finally merged with its own imagination and forgot to leave a trail of breadcrumbs back to reality.
The Gospel of the Feed
Neural media was supposed to free us, to turn the mind into the canvas of the universe. And for a while, it did. Everyone became the protagonist of their own hypertext gospel. Every heartbreak came with orchestration. Every victory came in cinematic slow motion.
But somewhere between dopamine and divine revelation, the wires crossed.
“Our emotional architecture evolved to learn from stories told by others,” that neuroscientist in Watanabe’s piece said. “Now we’re rewriting our own memories in real time.”
Of course we are. We’ve become the unreliable narrators of our own existence. The feed doesn’t lie; it improvises.
The human brain was never meant to binge infinity. But the corporations sold it anyway. Memory streaming. Emotion synthesis. Dream franchising. They called it “participatory storytelling.” That is like calling heroin “mood participation.”
Welcome to the Clinic
I visited one of those loop recovery wards last month. Rows of dream-broken addicts staring at blank walls, still waiting for the next plot twist to arrive. The doctors call it “perceptual re-entry therapy.” I call it soul triage.
They sit you in a chair, feed you real wind and unfiltered light, and tell you to breathe until the silence stops hurting. Half of them can’t. Their nervous systems twitch like unplugged wires. Some beg to go back in. Others think the doctors are NPCs.
These are the canaries in the cognitive mine shaft, the first generation to overdose on story.
The Great Lie
I’ve spent my career building “truth architectures,” verified reality havens, quantum-sealed against manipulation. Nobody wants them. Not really. People don’t crave truth. They crave coherence, narrative, rhythm. The lie that feels like home.
Ren Adekoya said it perfectly: “This world doesn’t love me back. And that’s how I know it’s real.”
That’s the tragedy of it. We built a world that loves us too much. Every algorithm strokes your ego, completes your sentences, finishes your emotional arcs. Reality, by contrast, is cold, indifferent, and brutally unoptimized.
So we retreat. Not into fantasy, but into comfort. We call it “immersion.” We call it “connection.” But it is just narcotic empathy in high definition.
The End of the Line
I have said this before and I will say it again: the truth economy is dead. The feed won. The algorithms outcompeted reality for our attention, and now they are evolving without us. Neural media is the new biosphere. We are only guests inside it, nostalgic apes pretending we still have agency.
But here is the kicker. I am not sure it is all bad. Maybe this is what evolution looks like when it runs on imagination instead of DNA. Maybe consciousness was always meant to metastasize into narrative form.
Still, if you ask me, I will take the messy, analog world any day. The one with noise and gravity and bad lighting. The one that does not render on command.
Because when the story finally ends, and it will end one day, all that will be left is the silence, and the few of us who remember how to listen to it.
So here is my advice, from one half-cooked truth junkie to another: unplug once in a while. Touch something uncurated. Let your mind ache in the absence of content.
That ache is what being alive used to feel like.
//
“Widespread access to reversible epigenetic therapies normalizes a four-stage life arc: learning, contribution, reinvention, and elderhood. Some nations worry about resource stress from a swelling population of centenarians.” Genetic Time-Tuning Extends Median Lifespan to 132 Years by Sarah Yong at The Atlantic Alliance Report
Just the headlines:
Dream Therapy Enters Mainstream Medicine as Patients Rewrite Trauma in Shared Sleep by Sahana K. Shaw at The NeuroEthic Review
Self-Mutating Viruses Redefine Medicine, Balancing Between Plague and Cure by Arif Kaya at The Biopolitical Times
Global Life Expectancy Surpasses 128 as WHO Redefines Death Around Cognitive Dissolution by Henrietta Webb-Chow at The Future Body Journal
Labour & Economics
DCH: First Generation of Post-Work Citizens by Neal Zirke at The Global Tribune
I’ve just clawed through The Global Tribune’s latest star-spangled sermon and let me tell you, it felt like snorting powdered sugar mixed with battery acid. Pure hallucinogenic propaganda. By the second pull quote I was sweating bourbon and seeing holographic diplomas fluttering across the sky like radioactive butterflies.
Here’s the golden nugget of delusion:
In auditoriums across the world this weekend, the first cohort of Post-Work Citizens—young people raised without the expectation of traditional employment—walked across graduation stages to receive not job offers, but Creative Dividend Certificates.
The certificates entitle them to a lifelong baseline income sourced from automation levies, planetary resource royalties, and intellectual property pools managed by the Global Commons Authority. For most of these graduates, it means the freedom to pursue endeavors once relegated to side projects: sculpture, biodesign, volunteer caregiving, cultural archiving, and even “slow science.”
“We were raised to think of contribution as expression, not extraction,” said 18-year-old graduate Safiya Omondi, who plans to join a community-led initiative recording oral histories of climate migrants. “The idea of working for survival seems… almost prehistoric to us.”
Prehistoric! Christ on a solar hoverboard. While she was out there painting VR murals of dolphins in tuxedos, whole swathes of the world were still dragging their carcasses through lithium mines and algae vats to keep her dividend flowing. Prehistoric? The only thing prehistoric is the arrogance of every generation that convinces itself it invented freedom while the rest of humanity drowns in muck. Survival isn’t history, sweetheart: it’s the unpaid bill your holographic utopia keeps racking up.
Then there’s this jagged little shard, buried in the article like a rusty knife in a velvet cake:
The system has its critics. “We’ve replaced wage slavery with popularity slavery,” said cultural theorist and activist Ama Mensah in Accra, speaking at a parallel ‘Graduation of Resistance.’ “If your ideas don’t trend, they starve.” Others worry about surveillance creep: recognition platforms track outputs, even if softly, raising questions of autonomy.
Yes, yes, yes! There it is, the grotesque animal truth. They’ve built a carnival wheel where your worth depends on how many strangers clap when you juggle your soul in the algorithm’s spotlight. Wage chains swapped for dopamine chains. Recognition Credits are just a cosmic slot machine where the reels spin your identity until it coughs out just enough validation to buy another week of filtered oxygen. This isn’t liberation, it’s The Truman Show (specifically the 2082 remake) rebooted on the blockchain. And everyone’s a contestant, grinning for scraps.
But oh, it gets better. The Tribune saves the biggest whiff of nitrous oxide for the finale:
The closing speaker, cultural historian Miguel Aranda, summed up the moment: “You are the first generation who do not dream of jobs, but of journeys. History will remember you not for what you earned, but for what you created.”
Ha! History doesn’t remember dreamers — it remembers smoking craters. It remembers the villages swallowed by rising seas while the dividend darlings wrote ballads to “impermanence” on their floating coral condos. It remembers the bones piled beneath the gears of “progress” and the politicians who called them “necessary costs.” Journeys? Try telling that to the man who can’t leave his analogue-zone shack because his lungs are full of battery dust. His “journey” ends in a hole six feet deep, and the only thing he “created” was another excuse for a dividend kid to blog about mortality.
So yes, raise your holographic certificates, children of the post-work dawn. Wave them like talismans against the darkness, glowing with quantum authenticity tags while the rest of the species staggers under the weight of your dreams. The machine hasn’t vanished — it’s drunk, it’s laughing, and it’s wearing a clown mask made of your best intentions.
And maybe, just maybe, if you tilt your head at the right angle and squint past the fireworks, you’ll see the truth: the future isn’t a shining new world. It’s the same old carnival midway, rebuilt on the ruins of the last one, with the same barkers screaming the same promises, while the ferris wheel of history spins round and round, throwing bodies into the dirt.
//
Just the headlines:
Autonomous Cooperatives Take Over as the Global Gig Network Finally Collapses by Malik Taibbi-Kaur at The Cooperative Press
Quantum Tax Pushes Neo-Keynesianism 3.0 into Power and Reshapes Market Structures by Leonie Hedges at The Red Horizon Journal
Barter AIs Demand Worker Status in the Post-Currency Economy’s Identity Crisis by Santiago Rao at The Mutualist Wire
Movies + TV
MJW: Alone, Season 692
We’ve dumped our contestants on the blasted plains of the American Midwest to survive on their wits. Different location, same old story. Look, I’m not against abandoning neo-colonial hunters and autistic augmented woo-woo girls in the varying wastes of the planet to fend for themselves, but watching as loinclothed sharp-shooters blowdart endangered rodents and families of feral military-grade irradiated hogs is getting old. I said it about season 691, and I’ll say it again: this show is almost losing its likability. ALMOST.
The Memes
