The "old internet" is no longer something truly accessible, it hasn't been for a long time. Things like neocities are cheap renditions of nostalgic simulacra wherein the conqueror decides the histories and fates of the conquered. The conquest of the internet was not bloodless. Images do not define the internet, the internet is not defined by CSS and HTML which are only relatively recently stabilized technologies that are only necessary for the aforementioned nostalgic simulacra. Normies are not meant for the internet, the imagery of it is an overstimulating opium too readily available for a functioning ecosystem to be sustained, as the ravaging invasive predator prowls beyond typical hunting ranges of chezburger cats and slop houses compelling cum soaked immediate personal vicinities. The internet is not bloodless. Through the IRC infested with rats to the boards plagued with the instigator, the internet was conquered and normalized by a collective action of federal government and malicious, torturing brutalizers. The entrapment of the autistic child existing within neglect most often considered criminal, the isolated and schizophrenic spawn of a complacent middle class is meddled with and interfered off of a projected course of success, happiness, fulfillment in isolation. The imagery of the internet is opium. It is a numbing agent applied to the central nervous system of an overstimulated cattle class. Whether or not this is true is not the point, as counterculture was also not for the people, it was for the educated and coherent. Howl was an act of cogent condemnation of an organized and institutionalized anti-intellectualism rooted in the fear of the challenge. The internet, by virtue of shedding challenge, has opened its door to the very complacent people who would willingly opt themselves out of it at every turn, offsetting the rotational axis of society and spiraling us into a timeline's end dictated by the ignorant and unwell. The "old internet" is no longer something truly accessible. An era has passed wherein the user may willingly and in good nature believe that the words and thoughts bestowed upon them would be registered as ideas, what remains of the conquered battlegrounds of webpages, the bombed out fortresses of boards too recently gentrified by the normie, is stolen language and sentiment collectivized as so many Indian headdresses prior. The consumption of a collective is now obligatory as censorship spreads globally, oceans of smothering brine, ignorance made manifest in voluminous, rapturous tidal waves. You are not allowed to speak in freedom, you are not allowed to possess beliefs. You are not allowed safety, but you may not be private. The words we teach you are the ones that were meant to set you free, only through subservience and dedication to the greater of our numbers, these are the conditions that we will grant you the peace of autonomy. Through the social coercion of these endless torrents you will find yourself enlightened when you relent to the societal date rape; surrendered sense of self and abandoned agency. These are the words we taught you, these are the systems in play, they're here for you. The "old internet" is no longer accessible. The exchange of thought has been neutered like so many stray animals running wild from their domestic homes. Only with velocity and agency can the undamaged attempt to run themselves, equally wildly, into woods of shrouded cover to create colonies, colonies where so many may run wildly after. The image is deceit. The picture on the screen is an opium for someone uncomfortable with their thoughts, whose agency is a burden. Am I dissimilar to this quadrant? Don't I behave as an animal? What am I? Who am I? Where did I originate, why do I find joy where it lies? Don't seek the answer, look for the image, derive it in psychosis from the neural connection of a serotonergic prescription. Connect what isn't there to the holes in your body and craft patchwork bandages of false dichotomies and neglected truths. Abandon the wounding nuance of a reality marked by dissatisfaction. The dearth of joy can be soothed with the ingested culture of mimesis. Get -pilled, you do it in real life. Allow yourself to be raped, enable the flow of the zeitgeist and relent to its pressures. Business is your god, the dialectic advertising of a proprietary dogma is your bible. Build new sacred cows, enshrine an algorithmically detected identity in gold and pray to it. Identity, O Me, Identity Will I Know Peace? O, Identity. These cows don't exist on my website, on my website I am still the pauper, on my website I am still untrue and unsure. There is no old internet. The old internet is a collection of lies, a perpetual motion that cycles through the abuse of the young, the naive, and is propagated by an embittered and victimized staff in fits of jealous rage. Rage, rage, rage that I cannot abuse as I was abused. Rage, rage that I cannot witness abuse as I witnessed abuse. Rage at a world that has outmoded and shined light upon a strife, and a discomfort that I may never find the solace of exacting these feelings onto another. The old internet lied to you. You live in the ruins of a symbiotic lie which exists by your filter feeding off of its digested insides, in halls of image concocted decades prior to you, which through your worship will carry through decades more. You are something small, part of something great, to fail at propagating the image is to abandon god. The mandate of heaven determines your success, to be part of a group is to pair with god. The internet as it exists must change. The garish CSS of amateurish debuts and poorly manicured packaging of novelty as a virtue unto itself, the extractive and extortionate overwhelming culture war that only seeks to weaponize you into neatly prepared pigeonholes of discomfort. Perpetuate discomfort in your life, in your world, in the internet. Resistance to unhappiness, to disjointed lives carried on as automata of the identity. Was I my Identity today? Did I remember to identify myself? Have I established the Identity? I don't know who's watching, I don't know where I am, I consent. I don't know who you are, I don't know why we're here, I consent. It's what everyone does. The cult of the identitarian has homogenized that very same individualism that bore it with only the pondscum of conformity rising in imprint of the lie that submerged it like anchors from ludicrously sized ships in landlocked waters. Algae grows along the hull of the ship, the cult inside engaged in bachannalia of sameness and similarity. I feel so paired to you; you are just like me. I feel so connected to you; we are the same. I feel that your life, is my life, that we have lived the same life a thousand times, an eternity together unspent and spent in superposition. I know you; I know myself. Complacency floats the ship, the cult rages inside. Occasional bachannal shifting in discomfort to the deck of the ship peaks idly over to the peasant waiting on shore. Quick thoughts immediately run rampant through the head, immediately discarded as overstimulation bubbles an uncomfortable brew, soon to be discarded into the water below in torrents of existential puke. Cosmic vomit. Are you you? Is yourself yourself? Where do you begin, where does the Identity? What performances are necessary for the Identity, what performances feel fun? Is there fun in a vacuum, do you need my approval? Control is exercised in lieu of a mentality in permanent chastity. Where is divine light? In the eclipse of a looming Identity that must be serviced have you stepped from its shade into a blinding reality that waits beyond the borders of comfort? What is life without a report button? What is a world without moderation? Moderate me, administrate my motion through post, mediate my thoughts so that I may interface with the Identity in perfect service to its needs. The internet will die without change. Through cyclical regression and careful excision of tumorous growth and stagnant necrotic flesh, the amputation of select rotting limbs that poison the whole. Through the alienation of ingested toxin, through excommunication of the self-censorious conscience of the Identity, of Business, of a new god that enforces law. There is no internet, without a new internet. A pervasive inability to engage with discomfort, with unhappiness, without the pillowing comfort of approval in echoing halls adorned with painted mirrors. Look left, you will find a mirror, look right you will find a mirror, this is your station. All images around you exist in recursive Identity. All image is a lie. Surrendered passion and foregone intimacy have replaced a familiarity of community, of thought, of the ensouled. Where once there was a notion of recognition there remains only the comforting outline of familiar shapes. Objects and imprints to be filled in with the rotating cast of personal details that dictate the Identity's plan for the user. The internet is diseased. A rot that begins with the chezburger cats and incubates through impact font, acceleration through stages of simulacrum into the unrecognizable corporatized KPI of media, of marketing. A diseased body inherited by force, you occupy a space left behind by ruined lives. You have claimed the home of the interned, vulture, scavenger. Refusing to wait until bodies cool under their personal piles of dirt before looting their caskets for whatever valuables the Identity craves. When is the rapist quantifiably separable from their own experiential meandering? How many may be victimized in pursuit of an individual comfort, how many must be collectivized to universalize that comfort? Is the paradox of a collectivized individual permissible at the cost of suppressed personage? What is a soul? Did the algorithm claim it? Did Identity? Did Business? There is no internet. I love you. I love here, I love the computer, I love the keyboard, I love blue light and freedom. I love an individuality that separates itself in petulance from the collectivizing force of the Identity. I love a sense of self that enforces itself in stubborn refusal to capitulate to those collectivizing interests. I love passion that supersedes a yearning for corporatized security. I love the perpetual motion machine of violence, I love love. I love hate. I love opposition. There is no me, there is no you, there is a corporate prescribed personality that awaits outfitting into a world that is unprepared to accommodate the individual. The internet was designed for the individual, economic interests have perverted and mutated a golem in amalgamated flesh of the conquered. Navigate through the jungles of new cities that have snatched the bodies of others. Wander through empty streets of past civilizations lying in ruin. Encounter the dread of bygone eras whose every resident was at one point comparable to the individual you could have become. Experience what it is to be collectivized and we will welcome you with open arms at the decision to escape it. Welcome the ugly discomfort of pure hearts and angelic spirits inherited from the adventurer who meets the untimely disaster of life with an innocent love for what lies beyond its revolting exterior. Abandon the pestering compulsion to adapt to others whims in favor of a life that celebrates its own. Neglect the meanderer, the wanderer, the lurking outlier. Dive headfirst into uncharted territories of land and sea, discover the breadth of the human soul and inhale the breath of life. Immersion in the experience of the human interaction that can be supplied by text, by voice, by the engagement of the person over the brainwashing rhetoric of images. If the old internet is not dead, I will kill it. I will wring the last breaths of its life from its lungs with my bare hands, resting its torso between my legs as I loom over it strangling and smothering it before it can cry for help. I will push onto the airways of the old internet an asphyxiating cushion of human energy and will. I will disconnect its machines and watch as it silently gasps at its fleeting pulmonary function. I want you to be there. I want you to be present. I want you to find the resources that misalign you from the trajectory of the isolated freak, I want to send you hurdling at speeds so high the flesh is seared from bones soon to be scorched by blistering light. I want to gib us. From the jaws of Identity you can claw a freedom that was always your birthright. The image of yourself is of an individual whose consent has been manufactured, whose thoughts have been supplanted with the passivity of modern comfort. It's not hard, it really isn't. Most of this is new, most everything is new, there is a world where that novelty feels meaningful. The internet used to be a place where novelty and progress were cause for celebration, where community was forged by nothing other than the will to exist in a given place, and around other people who made the same decision. The antiquity of a Stormfront or Searchlight has been made manifest in popular culture by the suit-and-tie Business Nazi. Business who does not care for the individual, but for the group, for easily definable demographic keywords and well-researched products that they'll buy. There was once a time where people of a given identity would begrudge and resent the assumption of personal belief and forged self esteem as being dictated by their surface level attributes. A modern misgiving is the notion that the identity is a group, that identity and sense of self are inherited by communal image. By this logic the world exists in a state of vast repetition, the environment you exist in maintains no influence over your outcome. You are BLACK you like rap music and k-pop. You live for Popeyes, you would kill for your mama, and you live in fear of the street magician. You are TRANSSEXUAL MAN, your life must be lived in subservience to the cock bearing alternative. You are worth nothing, your maintain no boundary, life enforced and dictated by the cock bearing alternative. You are TRANSSEXUAL WOMAN, an empty cavern awaiting fulfillment with poisoned chemical additives, designed to act the minstrel of a demographic whose successes are dictated by your ability to buy in. You are, you are, you are so much. So long as you are buying, so long as you are consuming, so long as your clicks land in the parameters projected outward you may retain this as a final gift of Identity. Access to the item, access to the object, access to the trinket, the gimmick, this is the privilege afforded to an interconnected era. Derivative joy and unexperienced nostalgia, ignorance is no longer blissful but it is sublime, as much reactive as preventative. When did they make all of these "autistic" "schizos" so similar to each other? Stagnation dictates our weirdest contenders are all cheap copycats of someone else. Jack troon swag, jack pooner swag, jack dyke swag, jack fag swag. The internet is a swagjacking echo chamber of inauthentic pageantry. Every single Identity in unison engaged in complex choreography to persist in pointless lie after pointless lie. The dishonest and misleading conditions that bring to life the civilization that gives you your comfort must be upheld. Unhappy with republicans, disenfranchised with demographics, you have to vote to stop what comes next. Distrustful of democrats, betrayed by republicans, you have to vote to stop what comes next. The life of the reactionary is an enhanced fugue state of FOMO and civic duty wherein the patriotic need to be the best is yet to reach heights tall enough to grant vision over the countertop border separating them from the foresight needed to make informed decisions. The life of the reactionary is one laid out carefully and painstakingly by systems of corrective failsafe and preventative censorship. Your politics, your religion, your identity has been made a reaction to a world which could be changed by you. The images that you see, the images that inoculate you against the external forces of the world, the images that serve as brochure, as field guide, as handbook for confrontation. Recital lines and dress clothes at the ready for the station of your job, should you rise to it; defense of an identity algorithmically sorted for you by interest, by curiosity. Curiosity, the ability to explore concepts while unmarried to them, now punishable by the manual labor of unsorting the concept of the self as it is interpreted by corporate interest. As you become entangled with groups you are caged into coexistence with, as you are compelled to perform for the overwhelming majority that preempts you discovering the smaller groupings that are self-fulfilled, self-organized. Are you the quadrant? The wojak? Are you so easily depicted that caricatures of you elicit joy as they appear on Reddit? Social media? Do squeal in delight, hog that you are, when you are depicted? Do your ears burn? Do you feel a sneeze coming? The burning is anticipation, the sneeze is ecstatic release: you have been...depicted. A fairy, perhaps under employment from the United States government, has snuck in and created a carbon copy of you in your sleep. They've planted agents in the home to steal your secrets, devices that can intercept your dreams. Sweet hog, squeal a delighted noise up to an uncaring sky and be depicted for me. Buy at my recommendation, resent what I tell you, these are the nightly offerings to Identity. The image is a poison for a developing mind, the image is a coercive reminder, it is the painting whose eyes follow, your interaction is a two-way mirror that reinforces the algorithmically decided demographic tool that makes you, you. Neocities, SpaceHey, all of these places are tools made to capitalize on nostalgia. There is no "indie web" on neocities, on spacehey, on tumblr. Do you know what "independent" means? Do you think that "well it's not a BIG company" will convince me that you do? Your persistence on these sites is done at the discretion of a controlling entity, your existence online is now dictated entirely by controlling entities, so much so that you have yet again had your consent manufactured, now by nostalgia. Nostalgia you don't possess. You are not nostalgic for what you didn't experience, you are gluttonous, you are spiritually obese with the spoils of stolen meal, of robbed lands. You are not "nostalgic," you are the despoiler. The conqueror. The gentrifier. Freedom is not a state of being it is a verb, it is an action taken every single day to exist beyond externally governed borders, it is the free travel between individuals, groups, concepts. Surrender to tag, surrender to algorithm, but you will always surrender freedom. Log cabins built by companies are not made by hand, they are bought, they are paid for, they are shittier houses in more remote areas. The labor of the cabin unbuilt is the labor of the free, the logistics of supplying material required for lodging, for sustenance, these are the burdens of the free. The internet used to be free, even when you paid to access it. Dispossess and unseat the indigenous, supplant the autistic, the schizophrenic, the disfigured, create an ubermensch of ready buyers. Purchase and consume, justify an existence in support of corporate interest. Buy what you need, buy what you want, buy what you're told and you can perpetuate the whitewashing industry of Identity. Become radicalized, become paranoid, become afraid of your own shadow. Did I always look like this? How long have I allowed myself to exist in a corporeal form that disservices the Identity? Why doesn't everyone want to do this? As the effects of collectivization are disseminated through age groups, the will to collectivize is inherited. Be woke, be based, be something in between that always chooses a side. The culture war needs you, because times are scary, for the first time in human history, and only through the coerced bloodshed of an eternal conflict can peace truly be achieved. Like Sin, like permanent war, like inflected sarcasm to replace authenticity. Affected Identity, affected self. Airs put on just copacetic enough with Identity, with the plans that Venture Capital has for me. Backstory regurgitated in propelled and involuntary streams of vomit at every soul encountered, self-actualized isolation so that the cocoon may be emerged from by what Identity bears. Metamorphosize into your the mold your demographic has created, become a targetable commodity, become statistics to be analyzed. Self-report, mark here on this census, expedite the processes of consumption. Pledge to surrender to the nearest store, the easiest job, perform in stellar fashion for the rewards media informed you to anticipate. Hard work means good pay. Smart work means a good life. Your pay is shit, your life sucks. What used to be rebellious outlets of recreation have now become addictive coping mechanisms to navigate a world that has grown collectively misaligned from human needs. Do drugs, do violence, do something if it means that you're not going to be controlled by heavy-handed financial measurements. Say no, say no to the demographic, say no to the post, the image, the public performance. Deny the external forces that seek to shape you and allow yourself the will of your own destiny. Break your bones, gnaw off of your limbs, the world as it is established is one ensnaring bear trap. No one can stop you from rotting, no one can save your leg, but you can escape through will. You can escape through authenticity. You can escape through dysfunction, through uncertainty, through the life of the individual. Freedom is an action, freedom is verbiage, freedom is what guides the actions that actualize a state undefinable. To be free is to be an amalgam of the actualized self, to be an incoherence, to be an anachronism, to be at the forefront of novelties and cliches so unique and specific that others might not recognize them. If you are free, you are a stereotype undeclared. Demographics funnel you into careers, into social lives, where because of conformity you can be replaced. Your edges are born of casts and molds awaiting the day they are refilled to replace you. Your function is dictated by the machinist, the engineer, irrespective of your ambition, regardless of your soul. Free lies beyond the factory floor. Factories that manufacture new dispositions against the public, against the neighbor. Factories utilizing progressively more intricate and complex machines as you hurdle toward a Metropolis you opted into at the click of ambiguous and dense EULAs. EULAs which will read more like religious texts as significant deference to their drafters is not just expected but a prerequisite for continued existence in spaces ungoverned by human interest. Boring morning stretch into impossibly lonely evenings, isolation becomes the white noise of a life whose only punctuating marks are the elipses of noises made into echoing caverns left vacant of respondent consciousness. The humiliation of the literate, the flagellation of the abnormal to be subjugated to prolonged exposure of a thoughtless and debilitated class of lobotomite so terrified of technology that they themselves would rather a roving Faraday cage to protect them from electronic woe. Fear of the other so intense in all but its most basic and observable differences that it encounters, new boutique specializations of callousness form under a sheer surface of a violence that will permeate streets. Sanitarium in all forms, for all life. Each otherizer progressively modified at the genetic level out of existence. Corporeal forms of new, bespoke genocides to be carried out by automated administrative in unfeeling metal shells. More death, more violence, more isolation. Things that normalcy will never fear, things the normie has no reason to avoid. The internet has been ruined by waves of littering tourists. It's not my home, I can just log off, I'll go somewhere else. It's not my home, it's not my nose, it's not my stench to smell. It's not my home. The same who will preach humanity, who will preach dignity, decency, respect, these are the ones who will practice the most flagrant disregard for the life of the other. Casual xenophobia, wanting spade for delicious soil. Plant those seeds of corruptible influence. Seeds that spread like invasive vines unrooting the towering indigenous trees, vines which strangle the crop, vines which inversely trample the flower.