This picture is the mirror in which civilization sees its ulcered face — a tableau of perversion parading as virtue, hypocrisy baptized as progress, and the bloated corpses of ethics dressed up in political suits pretending to still breathe.

This picture condenses the whole farce of our age — a masterpiece of idiocy, hypocrisy, and moral decay. It’s not politics anymore, but a theater of ethical extinction where the actors have long forgotten they were ever human.

It’s absurd that people still expect salvation. History has spoken: whoever comes, the people suffer. No savior in power—only new executioners. We don’t need politicians or the rich, we need a void pure enough to start over—or to end for good.

That scurrilous orange parody of a human being told so many lies that even Pinocchio would envy him.

And I — I rot politely in my chair, tasting the slow decomposition of my own existence, drop by drop, until even the waiting forgets me.

Del Toro’s Frankenstein is a hymn to the exquisite failure of life: a world where monsters bear the weight of human vanity, and creation itself recoils. Sympathy and horror entwine; the soul trembles, yet the heart knows it is powerless—beauty r

Del Toro’s Frankenstein is a hymn to the exquisite failure of life: a world where monsters bear the weight of human vanity, and creation itself recoils. Sympathy and horror entwine; the soul trembles, yet the heart knows it is powerless—beauty r

Menschen, die den Kindern die Schuld für die Sünden ihrer Väter aufbürden, sind nichts als Heuchler: sie genießen die trügerische Gnade, selbst von der Geschichte verschont geblieben zu sein, und spielen moralische Richter über Unschuldige.

Del Toro’s Frankenstein is a hymn to the exquisite failure of life: a world where monsters bear the weight of human vanity, and creation itself recoils. Sympathy and horror entwine; the soul trembles, yet the heart knows it is powerless—beauty resides only in our inevitable decay.

The criminal on the throne—an old joke the world keeps retelling. What’s truly comic is that the audience still laughs, still believes in the punchline. History whispers in their ears, and they nod politely, as if it were speaking in a foreign tongue.

The spectacle of this genocidal beast strolling unbothered through the world is the perfect mirror of our times: a circus where the executioner receives applause, and the clowns—our leaders—argue about the price of blood while posing as moralists.

A pedophile on the throne—nothing to gasp at. Power has always reeked of the same perversion. The true obscenity is that this disease, baptized as “love” or “tradition,” parades through the centuries as civilization’s proudest heirloom.

What astonishes me is not the tyrants — they are the natural sediment of history — but the fact that humanity, after so many crucifixions and purges, still stumbles toward its next master as if toward salvation.

We must have committed some primordial atrocity—nothing else could justify the cosmic irony of being ruled by amputated souls, moral invalids, and hypocrites masquerading as visionaries. Karma, that bureaucrat of decay, knows exactly where to send its refuse.

Rejoice, New Yorkers! Your triumph is but a prelude to delay, a calamity that will arrive on its own slow clock, adorned in the same Sharia baubles once peddled to Londoners under the fragrant lie of democracy. Time, ever patient, will unveil the farce.

Rejoice, New Yorkers! Your triumph is but a prelude to delay, a calamity that will arrive on its own slow clock, adorned in the same Sharia baubles once peddled to Londoners under the fragrant lie of democracy. Time, ever patient, will unveil the farce.

Rejoice, New Yorkers! Your triumph is but a prelude to delay, a calamity that will arrive on its own slow clock, adorned in the same Sharia baubles once peddled to Londoners under the fragrant lie of democracy. Time, ever patient, will unveil the farce.

Rejoice, New Yorkers! Your triumph is but a prelude to delay, a calamity that will arrive on its own slow clock, adorned in the same Sharia baubles once peddled to Londoners under the fragrant lie of democracy. Time, ever patient, will unveil the farce.