My friends, family and random passersby have a lot of different ideas on animal psychology.
They are all fucking wrong.
I have started to educate them, particularly on birds, which are particularly misunderstood. For reasons I cannot fathom, people assume that birds are simply dumb.
This is nonsense.
Birds are malevolent manifestations of a callow, heartless universe. Also, all of them are dead from birth and animated by a symbiotic fungus (this is what we call feathers).
Every bird is born hearing the unhallowed whispers of the Stork of Wrath, a deity and/or artificial intelligence embedded in the laws of probability by a far greater civilization than ours, which predates the Solar System's protoplanetary disk by approximately a billion years.
Birds are also born with an innate moral compass but absolutely no understanding of what it's requests mean.
There are only three types of bird socially: those who listen to the Stork of Wrath and thus hate all things good in this world, those who believe the Stork of Wrath is a counterbalance to their moral compass and thus act on whatever instinctive drive they want more at the time, and the TURACOS. Who are fucking heretics and have never been trustworthy.
Birds are often thought to be warm blooded, but this is a misunderstanding. As I said before, birds are undead. Thus we get the term "worm-blooded", which idiots and assholes have taken as a typo. It is not a typo. Do you not know WHY birds are seen eating those bugs? If their internal ecosystem stagnates, they can't move anymore. Tragically, this often is caused when a bird is smashed by a car, so few people recognize the truth of what they are seeing: self-guided missiles of an extrauniversal alien oligarch, and also undead hollow-boned lizards covered in mold.
Finally, people often ask me about penguins when I explain birds to them.
Penguins are not birds. They are a type of bipedal sea lion.
Thank you.
AND ANOTHER THING
Humans are all masochists. This can be proven:
We seek out bad signal (fiction), poison (alcohol, some drugs), and do physical, permanent damage to ourselves (piercings, scarification, tattoos) for fun.
We actively take joy in each other's suffering, and are wired to believe that whatever discomfort we are experiencing this moment is the worst pain that has ever happened.
When you look at monkeys, the only real conclusion is that Darwin was wrong and the most successful species is the one who makes time to beat their nuts with a wrench.
This is why birds will be our successors.
Quote from: nullified on November 23, 2019, 05:07:07 PM
AND ANOTHER THING
Humans are all masochists. This can be proven:
We seek out bad signal (fiction), poison (alcohol, some drugs), and do physical, permanent damage to ourselves (piercings, scarification, tattoos) for fun.
We actively take joy in each other's suffering, and are wired to believe that whatever discomfort we are experiencing this moment is the worst pain that has ever happened.
When you look at monkeys, the only real conclusion is that Darwin was wrong and the most successful species is the one who makes time to beat their nuts with a wrench.
This is why birds will be our successors.
Holy Nonsense this bit? I've been using "Maw of the Void" for your attribution but happy to put down whatever
Maw of the Void works. Have at it!
(https://i.imgur.com/3HKzUBC.jpg)
Fucking PERFECT.
I have one coming on about meat, it's going to be horrible
I was hungry and I was on the bus and I was listening to RAINBOW MEAT by Chat Pile (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=clhzsls0y8o) and my god it's so majestic how he
SEND MY BODY TO ARBY'S
It's fucking beautiful man, because I can see it in my mind's eye:
The MEAT PLACE. Red and gooey and screaming in terror in the distance, throbbing, throbbing. I can smell it.
Oh yeah. TAKE ME TO THE MEAT PLACE BABY.
Lay my fleshy carcass on the slab. I want the pig and the goat and the cow and the fffffffffuUCKING MEAT
WHATS THIS BREAD SHIT GIVE ME THE EDIBLE GORE YOU FUCKING BACKWARDS YOKEL FUCKS
MEAT PLACE MEAT PLACE
WHYS THERE BONES THIS AINT THE MEAT PLACE TAKE IT AWAY I WANT TO CHEW
MEAT PLACE MEAT PLACE
GOD BLESS THIS TUB OF SHATTERED MUSCLE
SLATHER ME IN THE LARD
STARS AND STRIPES MORE LIKE MEAT MARTS OF TRIPE
WHYS THERE AIR BURY ME IN BEEF YOU FUCKING SCOUNDRELS
And that's how I know I'm free, you know? SEND MY BODY TO ARBYS, god what an amazing lyricist. He gets it. This is what Uncle Sam wanted. Blood and bile leaking from the hacked up corpse of a non human murder victim. Oh yeah. I can taste it.
MEAT PLACE
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:16:14 AM
I was hungry and I was on the bus and I was listening to RAINBOW MEAT by Chat Pile (https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=clhzsls0y8o) and my god it's so majestic how he
SEND MY BODY TO ARBY'S
It's fucking beautiful man, because I can see it in my mind's eye:
The MEAT PLACE. Red and gooey and screaming in terror in the distance, throbbing, throbbing. I can smell it.
Oh yeah. TAKE ME TO THE MEAT PLACE BABY.
Lay my fleshy carcass on the slab. I want the pig and the goat and the cow and the fffffffffuUCKING MEAT
WHATS THIS BREAD SHIT GIVE ME THE EDIBLE GORE YOU FUCKING BACKWARDS YOKEL FUCKS
MEAT PLACE MEAT PLACE
WHYS THERE BONES THIS AINT THE MEAT PLACE TAKE IT AWAY I WANT TO CHEW
MEAT PLACE MEAT PLACE
GOD BLESS THIS TUB OF SHATTERED MUSCLE
SLATHER ME IN THE LARD
STARS AND STRIPES MORE LIKE MEAT MARTS OF TRIPE
WHYS THERE AIR BURY ME IN BEEF YOU FUCKING SCOUNDRELS
And that's how I know I'm free, you know? SEND MY BODY TO ARBYS, god what an amazing lyricist. He gets it. This is what Uncle Sam wanted. Blood and bile leaking from the hacked up corpse of a non human murder victim. Oh yeah. I can taste it.
MEAT PLACE
You just outdid my intentionally-weird poem about nailing fruit pits to the deck of a hollow ship while a rhapsode waffles about peedee shenanigans and also a giant drill is stuck through the fucking hull while its mechanic talks about the bosses from my favorite childhood video game. You did that just by screaming about Arbys.
I mean, I'm not
surprised that you did it. But you did it.
That was neat.
I found a portal somewhere unhallowed in the middle of last month and went on a rampage across multiple discord servers.
Then I rediscovered that portal this past week and decided to follow the advice of dearly departed Richter (he died in my timeline but still speaks to us on the television through infomercials about bloodstain expanders) and go ALL IN.
I don't live where the rest of you do now. I'm tilted about 15 degrees out of sync with "standard reality" and I can peek at all the horrible just around the corner.
The future is now, it is us, and it will chew our legs off.
And because they'll ask: Richter's infomercial appearances are one part Billy Mays, one part Brian O'Blivion of Videodrome fame (he's real, by the way, and Videodrome was a documentary), one part those crazy pirate TV broadcasts like the Max Headroom thing, and one part YouTube video decoder glitches.
It's some sales drone listlessly repeating the features list, then the background goes fucked and his face distorts out of frame and ITS RICHTER and he excitedly announces the new rules of our nation, which will expire in a week and be replaced by new rules. Then the screen is back to the marketroid mumbling their way through the same five features of General Kidney's Special Spreader, guaranteed to cover every surface of your home in blood or your money back.
Wow. :eek:
Quote from: Al Qədic on November 24, 2019, 03:27:36 AM
You just outdid my intentionally-weird poem about nailing fruit pits to the deck of a hollow ship while a rhapsode waffles about peedee shenanigans and also a giant drill is stuck through the fucking hull while its mechanic talks about the bosses from my favorite childhood video game. You did that just by screaming about Arbys.
That is because the best weird isn't spagging word salad around, it's taking something that has become normal and de-normalizing it. Looking at it from an outsider's point of view.
Alienation is my middle name. Also my last name. My first name is unknown by science, mostly because I change it every day to keep the feds nervous.
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:45:47 AM
Alienation is my middle name. Also my last name. My first name is unknown by science, mostly because I change it every day to keep the feds nervous.
This is where we differ, and why I don't
actually consider you as a derivative of me.
You are alienated. Known that since I've known you. Me, I want
everyone to be alienated. Really, I'd rather have them launched into orbit butt nekkid, but if I can't have THAT, I want them to jump at their own shadows and throw shit at the teevee.
If I was legitimately derivative of you, I'd want to be shot into orbit before Tucson finished dragging me into the hot dark earth.
I've borrowed some stylistic flourishes, but there's no one I haven't borrowed a bit of the voice of. I'm like one of those hyper-Tourette's patients what have to spontaneously and constantly mimic everyone and everything around them, except with the written word.
I've said forever: originality is remixing and happy accident. I eat all the food that is even slightly like the steaming, grimy sludge I want to pump out, and what do you know! My toilet stain isn't quite like anyone else's, and it's turned green and fuzzy. I bet YOU don't have Cyanobacteria in your bowl (mostly on account of it being more hostile to life than Mickey Rooney's face.)
EDIT: Also, with regards to alienation, I've embraced it now. As a result I have an aura of strange that extends precisely 300 feet from me, and makes people both nervous and intrigued.
I'm alienated. That's just step one. The ultimate goal is to be alien. A towering nematode, a 1980s cyberpunk cyborg, a dark fantasy swamp witch, something frightening, abnormal, so far removed that they have to ask about hallucination to begin with then start parsing after that.
So a while back I got handed a ticket onto a ship. The fuckin thing's apparently gone from Ai WeiWei's house to the site of the Pokhran tests to Kanda shrine to that one island that Canada and Denmark fight over with bottles of whisk(e)y, and now it's stuck in a desertified chasm somewhere because Eris decided she was done with her afternoon bath a little too early.
The ticket comes with a student-time guarantee, which is nice, but it's made of that weird compostable straw material and smells of almond extract and ghost jizz.
Those sailors say things are fun at sea; since Japan it's been nothing but fairy chess with ancient gold coins as board tiles, feeding hotdogs to tsuchinoko, watching the ittan-momen and shiro uneri duke it out like dogfighter pilots amongst the ship's forest of tiny car muffler exhaust pipes (which are naturally fed by the rowing of a hundred oars which are themselves powered by the techno-cultists below deck, who've been getting into fights with the treasure hunters, the egg-painters, the party-planners, and the spags), and weekly googly-eye-disease preparedness classes.
I'll forget I have the ticket eventually, but we'll see what happens to it once the ocean comes back to pick those fuckers up off the ground again.
Now I'm gonna go finish some ice cream.
The problem I have with this is that there’s no central point. There’s nothing it revolves around. It just jumps from point 2848 to point 94 and so on at random. It’s not only that the points are totally unrelated, but they’re never returned to and so they have no impact.
It’s like if you were watching some cute lady do the dance of seven veils except at the end she just is fucking gone. Vanished into one of those silk hankies right before your eyes. A whole lot of teasing and colorful fabric followed by silence and a cold spotlight on nothing at all.
The entire time I read that I’m watching something happening but by the end I realize that it was basically empty. A fan blowing the drapes around.
That shouldn’t be meant to imply your WRITING is the problem. It’s the arrangement. Just like you can have a whole bunch of masterful pieces in a symphony but the total program feels hollow and worthless because there’s no leitmotif or theme, nothing is connected. It’s the same thing here: you have a bunch of pieces that are great but they contribute nothing because there’s nothing to contribute to.
On the other hand, a really horrible writer (say, Lovecraft) can become remembered as far better than he actually was because the arrangement of concepts was well done.
Return to your thesis early, return to it often, and create a recognizable cadence with it. You can recognize this in both of the pieces I’ve contributed to this thread.
Edit: And if you want to know where I learned that from, it’s Hofstadter’s Godel Escher Bach. Once you start drawing cross-discipline inspirations your start to realize that when it comes to art, a lot of concepts in the best art of one medium are perfectly applicable to the best art of EVERY OTHER medium.
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:55:20 AM
If I was legitimately derivative of you, I'd want to be shot into orbit before Tucson finished dragging me into the hot dark earth.
I've borrowed some stylistic flourishes, but there's no one I haven't borrowed a bit of the voice of.
This is the awesome part. You borrow a bit from me. I ripped off Warren Ellis. Warren Ellis ripped off Hunter S Thompson, who himself ripped off H.L. Mencken, who HIMSELF ripped off Mark Twain, and Mark Twain ripped off old Ben Franklin, who in fact ripped off Voltaire.
This is how this is done. Any writer who says they are an island is fooling themselves. Unless they're that lady that wrote 50 shades of whatever, and that SHOWS that she had no influences.
Sometimes, when I write something, it has this overwhelming aura of familiarity, such that it's hard for me to believe that I haven't plagiarized it from somewhere, and simply forgotten the original source. Maybe I have, and it's just a matter of time before someone accuses me of such.
Quote from: nullified on November 23, 2019, 04:39:37 PM
Birds are malevolent manifestations of a callow, heartless universe.
Poo-tee-weet?
Quote from: Doktor Howl on November 24, 2019, 07:49:28 AM
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:55:20 AM
If I was legitimately derivative of you, I'd want to be shot into orbit before Tucson finished dragging me into the hot dark earth.
I've borrowed some stylistic flourishes, but there's no one I haven't borrowed a bit of the voice of.
This is the awesome part. You borrow a bit from me. I ripped off Warren Ellis. Warren Ellis ripped off Hunter S Thompson, who himself ripped off H.L. Mencken, who HIMSELF ripped off Mark Twain, and Mark Twain ripped off old Ben Franklin, who in fact ripped off Voltaire.
This is how this is done. Any writer who says they are an island is fooling themselves. Unless they're that lady that wrote 50 shades of whatever, and that SHOWS that she had no influences.
What's great about that list you gave is that I can recognize each author reflected in the other, but they ALSO have their own style and some of them I can't stand even though their predecessors and successors are fine. (This is mostly just Mencken, who I cannot enjoy no matter how I try. And oh boy have I tried.)
Birds are dinosaurs too malicious to die. It's really that simple.
Quote from: Cain on November 24, 2019, 03:52:55 PM
Birds are dinosaurs too malicious to die. It's really that simple.
As I said, they ALREADY ARE DEAD.
Cain Aerte, a.k.a. The Betrayer, a.k.a. Gilgamesh of the South, a.k.a. The Planetfucker: you can tell your lies about birds all you like, but both I and the Stork of Wrath know your game and we will SHIT OURSELVES IN PUBLIC before we let you win.
Pfft, I can't be expected to remember things I just read.
Quote from: Cain on November 24, 2019, 04:01:39 PM
Pfft, I can't be expected to remember things I just read.
:lulz: okay you win this round, PLANETFUCKER
I've got another one coming on, like a spasmodic bowel movement, and it's going somewhere new, I think.
It might take longer to piece together. It probably won't end up here. But there's a crawling, burning spindliness in my viscera and whatever they might say, I didn't eat those centipedes.
In fact, I think it might be an altogether different medium.
Audio.
Anyone who's ever shared a house with a bird knows this to be true. Their spores get in the air, infect your brain, and before you know it, you are a servant of a vile, avian arch-lich.
The only reason science hasn't yet proven this is that all the scientists involved get infected by the spores and must follow their unholy master's wishes, one of which is to deny any credibility to the sinister truth of the matter.
Horseshit. Bird spores have been PROVEN to be unable to take root in human flesh.
The real problem is that every bird is a psionic conduit for the Stork of Wrath, inducing irrationality in humans nearby. As birds are near ubiquitous, irrationality is near ubiquitous.
Ever heard of a dipshit in Antarctica? No? Thought so.
Quote from: chaotic neutral observer on November 24, 2019, 02:53:11 PM
Sometimes, when I write something, it has this overwhelming aura of familiarity, such that it's hard for me to believe that I haven't plagiarized it from somewhere, and simply forgotten the original source. Maybe I have, and it's just a matter of time before someone accuses me of such.
I have done that. I mean, I've written something and then it turns out it was something I heard elsewhere.
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:17:46 PM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on November 24, 2019, 07:49:28 AM
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:55:20 AM
If I was legitimately derivative of you, I'd want to be shot into orbit before Tucson finished dragging me into the hot dark earth.
I've borrowed some stylistic flourishes, but there's no one I haven't borrowed a bit of the voice of.
This is the awesome part. You borrow a bit from me. I ripped off Warren Ellis. Warren Ellis ripped off Hunter S Thompson, who himself ripped off H.L. Mencken, who HIMSELF ripped off Mark Twain, and Mark Twain ripped off old Ben Franklin, who in fact ripped off Voltaire.
This is how this is done. Any writer who says they are an island is fooling themselves. Unless they're that lady that wrote 50 shades of whatever, and that SHOWS that she had no influences.
What's great about that list you gave is that I can recognize each author reflected in the other, but they ALSO have their own style and some of them I can't stand even though their predecessors and successors are fine. (This is mostly just Mencken, who I cannot enjoy no matter how I try. And oh boy have I tried.)
The only good thing about Mencken is his irony. And I fucking hate irony.
Ambrose Bierce should be in there, somewhere.
I'm one hundred percent certain that anything I have ever said is ripped off from NO LESS than two separate sources, AT LEAST. I am nothing but a machine for churning words and phrases around in circles, kind of like a food processor for language.
Here is the only original thing I will ever say, made especially for you fuckers: Guten Tag horse bumblebee FUCK FUCK FUCK genomic cereal derision.
I hope you like it because I just feel greasy and stinky now.
Pre edit: also, Bierce is definitely deserving of that list. More than Mencken by a fair fucking bit, I think.
Quote from: nullified on November 25, 2019, 04:54:35 AM
Guten Tag horse bumblebee FUCK FUCK FUCK genomic cereal derision.
I think Biden actually said that during the last democratic debate.
My great work remains yet incomplete but today is an unscheduled day of rest and in the three hours I plan to be awake I plan to hork DEATH over this fucking countertop
Just globs of yellow oily ick pooling around night black fragments of undefined semisolids
And I'm gonna MAKE you read it while this tiny giraffe in my stomach gnaws on my optic nerve because by GOD you DESERVE the suffering I'm about 67% sure
If I'm feeling shit, everyone is (theoretically going to be) feeling shit too (if I can make my dreams into reality while dying of exhaustion)
Jesus skyfucking christ I'm tired TOMORROW is my day of rest today is OVER
The final word: this is INCREDIBLY on brand for me
(https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/173254010776715274/648714240177471501/IMG_20191125_183827.jpg)
Quote from: nullified on November 26, 2019, 02:37:27 AM
while this tiny giraffe in my stomach gnaws on my optic nerve
Well, there's a mental image I could have done without.
...I'll just save it for later.
Buy a toy that allows a friend to die
I promise you'll forget all about the tiny giraffe my company issues to its employees so they can monitor trade secrets when you knock the fucking skull of your best friend inside out with a spring loaded metal finger
Why would I want to forget about the giraffe? I'm going to replay that image in my head the next time I need to talk to the marketing weasel. It will make everything better.
Quote from: chaotic neutral observer on November 26, 2019, 03:25:48 AM
Why would I want to forget about the giraffe? I'm going to replay that image in my head the next time I need to talk to the marketing weasel. It will make everything better.
I have found that the best way to deal with marketing weasels is to smack them with a rolled-up newspaper. It gets their attention, and it isn't actual cruelty, because they don't have nerves like people do.
I think everyone is missing the point, the spring-loaded metal finger is meant solely for the giraffe, or a troublesome booger after you pick your nose, one which needs be flicked at someone standing in front of an adoring throng, trump comes to mind. Green and brown stand out so well against orange.
I wonder if this experiment could be performed with a small turd.
I just want to say
I am a fucking living curse and one day my enemies will find my teeth embedded in their tires. Repeatedly.
They will find chunks of my hair clogging their drains.
And when they finally go mad the psychiatric staff will be alarmed and confused at how the SAME FUCKING SKULL ends up in their patient's room, over and over, laughing at odd hours of the night.
Open Letter to the Outsourced Customer Service Fuckers
Your pitiful repeated failures can't stop my vengeance. Only the knowledge that I brought you down to my level and left you there, exactly the same as you did to me, that is the only thing that can stop me.
And you'll get yours, you rotten fuckers, oh yes, we have schemes and we have plans and we have a million shoes and a fraying rope holding them in place against the roof of the world.
I am not alone. One day you'll land us in the news and we'll show up with shovels and axes and Idaho won't know what to do.
We will brick you up alone in squat, loathsome pillars stretching from Boise to Boston, and your pleas for help will be ignored, exactly as you've done to the people we have to deal with after you're through with them.
Your day is coming, and HR will shun you.
What you have to remember is that every person has 3 guardian Spags.
On one shoulder, you have LMNO. He's asking you if what you're doing is ethical.
On the other shoulder, you have Doktor Howl, saying just do the thing.
On your third shoulder, the one you're not even AWARE of, you have P3NT saying "Heeee heee hooooooo".
I don't know, I looked to one shoulder and heard "Know what I mean, Vern?", I'm considering having it amputated.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on November 24, 2019, 07:49:28 AM
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:55:20 AM
If I was legitimately derivative of you, I'd want to be shot into orbit before Tucson finished dragging me into the hot dark earth.
I've borrowed some stylistic flourishes, but there's no one I haven't borrowed a bit of the voice of.
This is the awesome part. You borrow a bit from me. I ripped off Warren Ellis. Warren Ellis ripped off Hunter S Thompson, who himself ripped off H.L. Mencken, who HIMSELF ripped off Mark Twain, and Mark Twain ripped off old Ben Franklin, who in fact ripped off Voltaire.
This is how this is done. Any writer who says they are an island is fooling themselves. Unless they're that lady that wrote 50 shades of whatever, and that SHOWS that she had no influences.
50 shades started as twilight fanfic.
Quote from: Pergamos on December 01, 2019, 03:22:08 AM
Quote from: Doktor Howl on November 24, 2019, 07:49:28 AM
Quote from: nullified on November 24, 2019, 03:55:20 AM
If I was legitimately derivative of you, I'd want to be shot into orbit before Tucson finished dragging me into the hot dark earth.
I've borrowed some stylistic flourishes, but there's no one I haven't borrowed a bit of the voice of.
This is the awesome part. You borrow a bit from me. I ripped off Warren Ellis. Warren Ellis ripped off Hunter S Thompson, who himself ripped off H.L. Mencken, who HIMSELF ripped off Mark Twain, and Mark Twain ripped off old Ben Franklin, who in fact ripped off Voltaire.
This is how this is done. Any writer who says they are an island is fooling themselves. Unless they're that lady that wrote 50 shades of whatever, and that SHOWS that she had no influences.
50 shades started as twilight fanfic.
I took a little while and thought about it, and I was happier not knowing that.
There's a hole right through it, like someone drove a fucking spike in the ground, you know, and didn't see what was right in front of them.
Greasy, probably two feet long, crawling with flies, how in the fuck they missed it I'll never know.
And I got curious, and I sort of angled my head like you do when you're toe to toe with offensive odor, and I looked down the hole. And what do you suppose I saw?
Nothing. The fucking void. Big as shit and ravenous.
I kept walking, because the traffic light turned and I had only ten minutes till lunch ended. I'll forget about it by tomorrow.
But suppose I didn't. Do you think I'd ever go digging in a rancid loaf like that, hoping to break through, let the void out? That I would wonder what lurks in roadkill chest cavities or month old Chinese food containers?
Do you think I'd look inside?
There's a hole in everything. And the other side is alive, big as shit, hungry.
But. Thing is. Question you gotta ask after a certain point is, are you looking into the hole, or peering out of it?
Would you have walked away? Could you have, in the way that really matters, in your head?
I'm starved.
I read too much Kadrey and Barron in one go. That one's got their stains on it. Such is life.
(https://i.imgur.com/BkNi87H.jpg)
They call it the last minute because it's the only minute that matters. Every other moment in time is wasted, no matter what you do. Only the last minute counts.
In the last minute, you are in free fall. And you can do anything.
I have something frightening in the works. Watch this space.
Attention Residents of Sol-3//Earth,
It is with deepest concern that we inform you of the escape of Her. She is a fugitive from Her own Doom, and should be considered unarmed but incredibly dangerous.
She was Doomed for the following Karmic Crimes:
Listening to bad music and liking it
Being homeless in public
Being a tranny freak in public
Running an unlicensed psychiatric care facility out of the back of Her own skull
Killing despair with a pick axe
There are no tips as to what She may look like. As She is a fugitive from Her own Doom, it is fair to assume that She will not appear homeless. It is also fair to assume She may not look like a tranny, and indeed may look like either gender as the occasion suits.
Despite the violent murder of despair, She is not thought to be a danger to the physical well-being of others. Her danger is inspiring similar, "copycat" acts of escape from Dooms large and small. Remember that your life is miserable for a reason and you should not try to better your circumstances. Escapees will be dealt with harshly and swiftly.
If captured, She will be made into an example, so that you will not try to follow Her. While normally this would be execution, She has grown too powerful and we will have to devise a solution for long-term containment.
For the time being, we advise all residents keep their head down, bury themselves in their numbing, meaningless life, and ignore any statements along the lines of "You are powerful if only you work together." All humans are islands, and cooperation is weakness. Do not band together, as this is to be considered the first step of an escape attempt from now on, to prevent recurrences of these terrible circumstances.
Again, She is Free and You are Not. She will be brought to justice, and if you can only listen, you will remain beneath notice. So who's really the lucky one here?
Signed,
—Ananke, Blind Necessary Fate of Sol-3//Earth.
https://img-9gag-fun.9cache.com/photo/a8GGwVY_460svav1.mp4
Free? Nope, I'm damn expensive.