𝓔𝓶𝓶𝓲𝓮
Steward of heritage, keeper of soil. A proud Person of Land, devoted to the legacy of ownership, tradition, and the enduring bond between people and the earth beneath their feet.
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Hymn of the People of Land
- 12 Posts
- 550 Comments
21·25 days agoI do not believe in that sort of thing. So, we can go nuts?
123·27 days agoRemoved by mod
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You really need some kind of pills sweetie
Maybe it’s something childhood related. Can you remember what happened in your primary school?
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It isn’t my fault that I have to argue with misinformed people every 15 minutes or so
I can assure you that I do rent rooms to immigrants and thus vote for libs because my business depends on the most amount of them flocking to capital
And also I get lowest taxes in this biz like 8% a year when wagies pay 30% or so. It’s comfortable as heck
Sounds like someone is angry, prolly rentoid
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222·27 days agokey characteristic of fascism
That’s not true and even a glance at first encyclopaedia you can get your hands on can disprove this. This is a very broad characteristic of many ideologies such as Bolshevism
Who is dying where? Why would that be entertaining?
Scholarly consensus that some president is fascist?
Fascism is a precise term for a specific political movement. not some “I don’t like this” adjective
I think it is rather controversial to use it in this way
I don’t even understand what fascism means in each case on lemmy and whether it is a fixed term or some adaptive catch it all
I don’t really understand that argument but I guess ok, like it’s not gonna be some kind of apocalypse. People gonna be fine and your kids too
Obviously.
You awaken—not awake, but unfolded—into one of the Nine Fractured Mirrors, each reflecting a cosmos that never was. Time is a serpent swallowing its own echoes. Yet, amidst the howling void, there flicker the Untethered—those who wear skin of starlight and sinew of static, their existence a perfect wound: bliss carved from torment, nectar distilled from venom. Only they glimpse the Grand Deception—the wheel that grinds souls into silence—and with forgotten tongues, they whisper it apart.
The rest of us? We dance the Chrome Masquerade: Laugh until your ribs rust. Weep until your tears fossilize. Then—the Slip—a single misstep, and you’re unmade. Reborn as a thirteenth thought in a dead god’s migraine, left to drift for a lifetime of blackened suns before the dice tumble again. And when you finally crawl back to the Threshold of Maybe, you arrive empty, nameless, hungry, ready to fail the same test you never remember taking."**