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Shadows and Dust
Discussion of a 1994 Seer’s Warning of Things Long Since Darkly Come
© 2020 James LaFond
AUG/8/20
what about the coming race war
Fri, Aug 7, 5:32 AM (18 hours ago)
dear mr. lafond,
thank you for a marvelous article and, of course, your many other writings. as i read it, i couldn't help but think of a piece i read many years ago which appalled and fascinated me in equal parts. i'm often drawn back to the clear-eyed wisdom of that 1994 preamble. keep up the great work and rest assured you are an inspiration to people of sound character and mind.
regards,
bob
www.thornwalker.com/ditch/whowe.htm

Thank you Mister Bob.
The insane demos impulse to parade, whine, argue, shout ,vote and “resist” according to the false promises imbedded in the deistic documents of diabolic deceit known as the Declaration of Independence, Articles of Confederation, The Constitution and the Bill of Rights, has once again resulted in the dogs of the worshipped opaque baying for the erasure of minds into the hate desired by the ravenous leviathan state. The demos is the grease that smears the gears of the soul-eating machine and has never been anything else. Liberals see an evil past and a just future, while conservatives see a just past and an evil future. These are dueling polarities of delusion which take turns spotlighting their perceived enemies for devourment by the enemy of us all what poses as our friend, our mother, our father—our earthly god. We live in a consumption-based society—capitalism and socialism are both consumptive, both evil, both fueled by devouring human souls, and remain the only options the Machine permits. For both isms render us into its food.
Whoever “wins” in a democratic struggle loses.
And we do not know, cannot see, and dotter on across the Midnight Sea.
Below are some quotes from a man who spoke before even the alienated souls awoke...
“Politically and culturally, we are some of America's dead, huddling together here in The Last Ditch.
“We're a jumbled bunch of old bones — defunct revolutionaries, shell-shocked reactionaries, failures of the regime's schooling system, American Dreamers who died hard, misfits all. There are even a few of us still dreaming who might protest — like the uncooperative plague victim in the Monty Python film — "I'm not dead yet!"
“But we're dead, all right — because of the handful of values we hold in common. We're all individualists. We all love liberty. We all mourn the civilization of the West. And because of those things we have become ghosts in our own land.”
An example of the deft subtlety of the savage leviathan negation matrix is reflected in the quote, “Bad, boy, bad boy, what you gonna do when they come for you?” from the Cops TV series mentioned in the article, a series that has been cancelled despite huge success. The show speaks too clearly to our masters’ purpose and our destination. My friends on Left and Right both believe that the Machine will come for them—and they are both correct. We will all fall before the Machine in our turn as we take turns pointing each other out for the machine—lazer-pointers of despair, minions dedicated to playing the macabre game of musical chairs that is Modernity…destination of the vaunted West, graveyard of culture, tradition, identity, sanity, and metaphysic faith. Our faith has been reassigned alternately to economics, the quest for safe space, justice, law and order and inner escape.
I cannot imagine what a fool I would have to be to “resist,” the will of an earth-shackled golem of a god gestated and awakened over ages of dehumanization and hate, a thing to which I am but a grain of sugar to sweeten its meal. I literally care not what other humans do with the time remaining to our afflicted kind. I am simply devoting my fading energy to preserving some shreds of humanity within the chinks of this remorseless machine we have breathed ravenous life into in a quest to create God Proximate.
We are echoes within the Eater of Dreams, ghosts within the apogee of machines, food cultivated by the very greed of our aspirational means.
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