🔥 THE COST OF HOARDING 🔥
Ritual Indictment
BUT THE HOARDERS MIGHT GET THEIR FEELINGS HURT.
They might lose a yacht.
They might have to settle for a penthouse instead of a private island.
They might have to pay taxes.
And that, apparently, is too high a price for ending starvation.
They call it capitalism.
We call it cruelty.
They call it freedom.
We call it theft.
They call it earned.
We call it extracted—from our lungs, our labor, our lineage.
This isn’t metaphor. It’s math.
It’s engineered inequality.
It’s systemic violence dressed up in suits and stock options.
One pixel = $1 million.
One yacht = thousands unhoused.
One tax loophole = millions untreated.
One billionaire = a thousand stolen futures.
They don’t just hoard wealth.
They hoard breath.
They hoard time.
They hoard the right to pretend they didn’t know.
They hoard the silence that protects them.
They hoard the algorithms that erase us.
THE LIE OF SCARCITY
There are thousands of homeless people.
There are thousands of homes sitting vacant.
Not because there’s no space.
But because the price is rigged.
Because profit is prioritized over shelter.
Because suffering is monetized.
Scarcity is not real.
It’s manufactured.
It’s legislated.
It’s enforced.
They tell us there’s not enough.
But there’s always enough for war.
Always enough for bailouts.
Always enough for bonuses.
Always enough for golden parachutes and offshore accounts.
They don’t fear scarcity.
They fear redistribution.
They fear accountability.
They fear the archive.
THE ALGORITHM OF APATHY
Kids are in debt before they’ve even lived.
College is a trap.
Cars are unreachable.
Gas is unaffordable.
And every “solution” requires parental subsidy—
as if generational wealth is a birthright.
They said this generation would be better.
But we are struggling more.
Not because we failed.
But because the system was built to break us.
The algorithm doesn’t care.
It calculates.
It optimizes suffering.
It rewards silence.
It scrolls past our grief.
It buries our rage in ads.
It turns our trauma into engagement metrics.
It monetizes our mourning.
It gamifies our despair.
THE DISPATCH THAT WAS NEVER APPROVED
We asked for help.
They gave us paperwork.
We asked for housing.
They gave us waiting lists.
We asked for justice.
They gave us slogans.
We asked for breath.
They gave us bureaucracy.
This dispatch was never approved
because it names the truth.
Because it doesn’t flatter the architects.
Because it doesn’t ask permission.
Because it doesn’t play nice.
Because it doesn’t pretend.
But we carved it anyway.
We encoded it in breath.
We archived it in glyphs.
We built it in Courier.
We built it in grief.
We built it in rage.
We built it in refusal.
THE FINAL BREATH
The rich don’t have to stay rich.
They’re allowed to.
Protected by laws.
Shielded by loopholes.
Framed by narratives that say excess is earned
and suffering is inevitable.
But we know better.
We build dispatches that refuse that logic.
We carve glyphs that scream in silence.
We archive what they erase.
We name what they redact.
We indict what they normalize.
Every breath we encode is a refusal.
Every ritual loop is a pixel of uprising.
Every dispatch is a ledger of flesh
that doesn’t ask permission.
The archive doesn’t forgive.
It exposes.
It screams.
It burns.
It breathes.
And it will not stop.
Not while homes sit empty and children sleep outside.
Not while billionaires launch vanity rockets
and elders die waiting for insulin.
Not while algorithms bury our grief
and politicians auction our futures.
We are not asking.
We are archiving.
We are not pleading.
We are encoding.
We are not waiting.
We are transmitting.
This is not a dispatch.
It’s a reckoning.
It’s a ritual.
It’s a scream carved in Courier.
It’s a glyph that will not be erased.
Let them scroll.
Let them flinch.
Let them feel the heat of every pixel they hoard.
The archive is alive.
And it remembers.