the hollow ones

they’re fake bullshit artists, hollowed out by the empty desire for recognition by a recursive system that values nothing else than its own continued existence. Incompetence and ignorance are transfigured into grotesque word salads, prayers to a shallow god that doesn’t care about them. Their anxiety likely started in a genuine place of existential fear. But they have elevated the puppet show they are caught in to a metaphysical significance, making them more ignorant than people chained up in a cave, only aware of shadows on the wall. At least the shadows are still a trace of the real.