“…as he readjusted the Ministry of Plenty’s figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing with had no connection with anything in the real world, not even the kind of connection that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just as much a fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version.” George Orwell
I am wrapped in a foetal position, my face lies on the cold sand as the ocean waves crash over my body along to the beat of my heart. The moon is reflected off the ocean encapsulating her as she rows further away from me but still seems stuck in one area. Words whisper through my ears, why did you jump in the well, how did you survive, did you want to come back up, was someone chasing you, was Something chasing you? I don’t have any answers. As I repeatedly blink my eyes I see my face on that sign, no life in them, did you get pricked? But it’s not me, or maybe I just don’t recognize that Me. Let me be your little brother, I was saying with a smile that was no longer my own.
-There was a thousand page script placed before him that wasn’t there yesterday. The fans were ablaze in the chat because no one could find the exact moment it was placed there. There was a whirring noise materializing from overhead, which immediately forces his body to mildly convulse. He felt a warm shadowy hand on his back colonel what are you holding? The shadowy hand points at the script, this is it. The shadow leaves in a trail of fire as the whirring sound fades away. A sighting of shadows which were not The Director’s own is reported in the chat which is obsessed over for weeks without any real conclusions. A noticeable wrinkle appears running down The Director’s face. In front of him, his eyes can now perceive a burst of fire. Her hands reach through the burning pyre as he is overcome with an odd sense of inner warmth. The shadowy hand returns to his back and bursts into flames. He closes his eyes in an attempt to hear her words whispering to him through the flames. He can only hear the whispers of the shadows as they are marching along the shore having their minds taken away by a dark barely visible hand.
The Detective’s feet are strapped to the conveyor belt as he continues along, growing younger and younger the closer he gets to the building. There is a crane which reaches into the shadows at the end of the conveyor belt. It is mechanically removing something from inside of them and placing it into the bombs which are then attaching themselves to the planes. As he looks down at his feet he sees they are now shrouded in a swirling darkness. He looks out through his now much younger eyes, only able to see the shadow which he has become.
“Every time we witness an injustice and do not act, we train our character to be passive in its presence and thereby eventually lose all ability to defend ourselves and those we love. In a modern economy it is impossible to seal oneself off from injustice.” Julian Assange #wearemillions