Soon we will be entering the 3d year of the plague justifying the Sword of the Covidians. The wicked Sultan forcing conversion by injection on pain of death in a hospital or starvation in the street has turned faces into masks and our bodies into sadistic experiments in open air hospitals called nations. Some labor rises in objection and in some echelons of the Bourgeois we see signs of narrative failure and a few are reconsidering the outcome from their hubris. However the Sultan may not be disobeyed and all must obey in lock step so the Great Reset can consolidate universal power and launch 10-G Conquistadores to the Stars. Disobedience can be slow walked. Truckers can be free of mandates but soldiers not. Meaning who shoots truckers will either sick soldiers or androids.
History Is Like a Dream.]
As history unfurls, it becomes at once God’s secret, and even what is most authentic to the thinker’s mind is nothing more than a probable opinion. However documented a historian may be, he knows well that he does not see the fact confronting him which he has so painfully fished up, like a piece of flotsam from the depths of darkness. Its essential, divine form necessarily escapes him. We have sure, indisputable proof of a great number of historic events. in clearly determined periods; but these proofs, basically, have no other consistency than the absolute necessity of these events and these periods. This is what was necessary, and not something else. Here is the only criterion. Jeanne d’Arc might have been freed or ransomed by the king—her death was not a necessary consequence of her captivity, it has been said. True enough, but that is not what happened, because these vast injustices were indispensable to the working out of an enormously mysterious plan which we cannot understand.
[Tears.]
There is nothing else. Everything is vain except tears. History is like a dream since it is built upon time, which is an illusion often painful, always uncapturable, an illusion impossible to make precise. Each of the infinitesimal particles the sum of which we call duration hurtles toward the gulf of the past with lightning speed, and history is nothing other than this swarm of lightning flashes recorded upon the pupils of tortoises.