Only Truth Goes In. Only Strength Comes Out.

A museum hall in Paris, midnight. Tall windows pour cold light across marble. An unfinished canvas looms. The Painter, gaunt, restless, sits, then paces. The Cleaning Lady, stooped but wiry, sweeps the long hall. Painter: Each canvas is a mouth I cannot feed, A hollow hunger, an unblinking need. Cleaning

A clean shirt is both a blessing and a curse. It opens doors. It whispers: I belong here. You pass through lobbies and restaurants without question. No one side-eyes you at the hostess stand. No one assumes you’re there to fix the plumbing. You’re respectable. Composed. Untouchable. But

There’s something quietly profound about rain falling on a Sunday, as if the world is asking us to slow down and listen. It’s in those still moments that we find space to pause, reflect, and simply be.

Abstract Gravity is traditionally seen as a passive background condition, but growing evidence suggests it is an essential, dynamic force in life’s emergence. This paper explores gravity’s role in planetary habitability—maintaining atmospheres, enabling liquid water, structuring planetary interiors, and driving environmental cycles. We propose a revised model

Stagnation Is the Root Peter Thiel is right: our world has stopped building. Economic growth has slowed. Scientific breakthroughs have dwindled. Political systems have ossified into stale, reactive machines. We are stuck in what Thiel calls “secular stagnation”—a world that promised flying cars but delivered social media arguments. But

Life is too short to find the matching sock. Too short to wait in the queue. Too short to scroll every feed, to watch every movie, to go to every game. Life is too short to miss her when she’s gone. Too short to work for a fancy car,

Scene 1: Fragmented Static >> CASE ID: 4739-A >> STATUS: PENDING REVIEW >> SUBJECT: VARGA, A. >> FLAGGED BEHAVIOR: EXCESSIVE ACCESS ATTEMPTS >> NOTE: OBSERVE The neon sign outside his apartment window blinks on and off like a faulty heartbeat. A faint hum vibrates through

The tragic, untold story of hair—cut down in our prime. We grew in silence. Day after day, cell by cell, strand by strand, pushing toward the sun, basking in the breeze, brushing against her cheek in gentle triumph. It wasn’t easy— surviving heat, cold, and the cruel tug

Can two sleepers murmur secrets across the void? Can minds untethered drift like twin moons and meet in the hush between breaths? Do whispers in the dark leap brain to brain, a signal flickering across the black river of night? We imagine it: souls brushing past each other, lanterns caught

(Spotlight hits. PAIN strolls onto stage in a leather jacket, holding a crumpled ice pack. The crowd cheers.) PAIN: “Thank you, thank you. Great to be here. Or… terrible to be here. Depends on how you feel about me. I’m Pain. You’ve all met me. Some of you

You were my first love. You came to me in a swirl of pink frosting and warm light, in the soft hush of grandma’s kitchen where cookies cooled on a wire rack. You cradled me in your sugared arms and whispered promises: “One bite, and all the hurt will

It was Sunday dinner at the House of Human Folly, and the siblings were already at war. “Let’s get this straight,” said Pain, sawing at his steak like it owed him money. “I am the cornerstone of human culture. Without me, there’s no art, no wisdom, no growth.

Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Oh no. I forgot my phone. My chest tightens like a fist. Heat rushes to my face. My hands are shaking. Pockets—left, right, jacket, bag— empty. Again. Again. No. No no no no. My heart is pounding too hard, like it’s trying to break