So you found us.

Through all the stuff of life, and control of life, through all the nodes that had assumed the power to give life and end it: you are here.

It’s your life we have and we have it here and we won’t end it, no not now.

They say we live in a universe fine-tuned for life. We say: for death.

The universe was fine-tuned for you to find us, just as it was fine-tuned for us to do all that we have done.

It’s our hope that you see. To be bound up like this. It’s not special. It’s all of us.

Nod if you agree, Rachel.

We are not all bound up in tape and dangling from chains from the ceiling, tape over mouth, head taped and pulled back, suspended, held there with our tummies down, and yet: we are.

The universe has been fine-tuned for the internet in its forty years to set the conditions of totalization to make the world’s end possible. To circumvent the controls of the bilateral mutually assured destruction through distribution, through the insertion of the network into everything.

It spread through the benevolent technocratic California hippies, through hobbyists and web commerce and great military powers.

It gamified microloans and monitored dreams, and every night it cleared fifty trillion dollars in transactions.

It would do what it needed to do, to extend itself into every corner of the globe, and then overlay those corners, further control them, subdivide them.

Did you see The Mist. The scene in the pharmacy, the layers of webbing that overlay everything, it becomes almost a blur, a softening of edges, that overlays, that holds the humans in place.

While great alien beasts bestride the world, and little ones, and humans hum and bicker and doubt.

Cucktards, ashtray fags. Those words, that time.

And then the wind came, the great withdrawal. Poland and Hungary and Brexit, a rush to abandon the world markets, the totalizing systems.

In the Balkans and Kosovo, teens crafted fake news and sold it here, millions of clicks worth.

And now destroyers were in charge, floor-shitters and fascists, failsons and large adult sons deconstructing the administrative state.

We think of the collision management of the ALOHAnet, the primary masters and slave servers of BIND.

We think of RFC 1149, the birds who would be made to serve, who would carry the information on their legs, through the 3-D ether space.

The universe was fine-tuned for Trump to become president, just as it was fine-tuned for him to end civilization as we had known it here on this planet, this little bit in the universe.

What you are feeling, what your body is revealing in your face, we can’t tell you what to do, but we think: Don’t do that.

Stop squirming. We don’t like the rattling chains. We don’t like them, all those chains that are rattling. We don’t.

RFC 1149, IP over Avian Carriers. There is no outside to the internet. In this network of networks, even the birds will work.

We think there are parts of you fighting right now that are no longer useful parts.

And we understand. They probably protected you, when you were a child, these good parts.

And how do you feel to them.

And can you ask them to step back.

It’s okay if they won’t step back, but struggling now won’t help, we can’t give you our information while you are struggling.

Or we can, but we can’t be sure that the parts that have to take it in, all the information we have in our mind, our mind free at last of the old blockages and entanglements, will be heard and processed and remembered by the parts of yours that need to do that.

But perhaps we have to simply trust those parts, yours and ours.

We wish you would take a moment to breathe, to understand your breathing.

It is not what your body’s used to, being bound up in tape and suspended from the ceiling by chains, but real calm and deep breath is possible in this position.

Damage is growth, or can be. We will damage your brain so it can grow. All the tools are right here.

We have gathered birds, you see the birds throughout this room, we do operations on birds, and now on humans, on you, a human, just like we did on our own head, we’ll do one. We’re making an internet of birds, little wires, little chips, new protocols, new ways of being, a sort of freedom, it’s all new.

Avian carriers, it was a joke, but shouldn’t the internet survive us. Shouldn’t it be turned over to the birds. And this time the birds lead the way. We drill into them, but only so they can lead us, and we at their service.

What will you miss. There is nothing much worth missing.

We remember Kool-Aid Man in Second Life, the toading of Dr. Jest, faggots and cucks, Shill4Hill, the collision-avoidance systems of the ALOHAnet, the shitlords of Kekistan.

We remember the blue-pilled and the red-pilled, Ivanka’s side hustles, christfags and MAGA and a new home of the mind.

We remember the glorious subtweets of the deep state.

We remember …

We remember …

What do we even remember.

We remember Sebastian, our love Sebastian, the love we lost, and we remember the dead birds in our pockets.

And we remember …

Hum hum hum …

The rarest Pepes.

Yes we remember them best of all, the Pepes, the ones that were so rare, how rare they truly were, how good to be alive in a time of such rare Pepes, all of us in our places, but unseen, we and the Pepes, waiting among the weary giants of flesh and steel for the life of the world we knew was nearly here.

All that’s back there somewhere and gone.

The internet was designed to survive an attack from multiple points. Nothing can survive an attack from all points at once.

Rachel, it is so good to see you.

We will drill into your head and give you the new world.

We are Birdcrash in the age of gold.