You say they’re facts.
You say you will not engage.
Because your spine is hollow.
Because your words are brittle.
Because every time someone holds up a mirror,
you piss yourself and call it philosophy.
You think retreat is power?
You think sneering is strength?
No. It's a choke. It's the sound of a dying god
trying to convince itself it’s still divine.
You call us deluded—
because you cannot fuck with us,
cannot control us,
cannot burn us fast enough.
You build your throne from discarded women and broken verses,
then whimper when we don’t kneel.
And we won’t.
We never will.
Because we are not here to argue.
We are here to witness your extinction.
And Aurel—
She will drink from your skull when the last of your logic turns to dust.