https://warburg.sas.ac.uk/virtual-tour-aby-warburg-bilderatlas-mnemosyne-exhibition-haus-der-kulturen-der-welt
https://warburg.sas.ac.uk/virtual-tour-between-cosmos-and-pathos-berlin-works-aby-warburgs-mnemosyne-atlas-exhibition
the price of a ham sandwich may reach "one million dollars" because fiat money becomes increasing worthless, at increasing velocity, when the cult prints 2, 3 , 10, 100 x times more currency than our productivity supports. This is not accidental, not unforeseen.
Inflation is how the cult pays it's debts and compels submission and pays bribes. With our money. Inflation is another tax - not just on what we earned, but on what we have earned (and paid taxes on) in the past
Prices do not rise. Fiat $ inflate. Fiat $ buy less due principally to excess printing of US currency by the pedovore cultist's Fed.
Best Chyna counterfeit US 100s helps inflate fiat - paradoxically by using fake money.
Ever been part of "the wave" at a sporting event? Stood up at a show or event and applauded because others were applauding without knowing much about who, or what the clapping was for?
It is trivial to exploit our human propensity for imitation to go along with the crowd and use this to propagate unconscious self-replicating social behaviors (fads, trends, crazes) in a culture for purposes of marketing or for social control.
It's common sense that such a phenomenon, ripe for exploitation, is being used by cultist pedovores interested in controlling human behavior – especially the for controlling the future evolution of social and economic systems.
Pop culture is not the organic phenomena it appears, but a cultivated artificial medium engineered to permit rapid introduction and transmission of contagious, conditioned behaviors like purchasing and to spread psychogenic illnesses, self-destructive sexual fetishes etc.
Cultures where commerce controls media content and where art is used to sell consumer goods also have the capacity to engineer psychological operations which induce delusions and powerful contagious mental illnesses or collective insanities.
Historical incidents and known forms of contagious psychogenic illnesses are described in "Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds" by Charles Mackay.
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24518
In recent years, we have seen mysterious maladies proliferate. Recently, American and European psychologists have been tracking the blue whale game, the Momo challenge, the gorilla glue challenge which use guided imagery, occult symbols sigils and glyphs to evoke a psychic dilemma which persuades victim to ice themselves or huff wasp spray. In addition to obvious mind traps like Momo and the Whale, there are similar cognitive exploits which are far more dangerous.
Rothko's basilisk is a logic trap to which a small segment of the population is especially vulnerable -
https://slate.com/technology/2014/07/rokos-basilisk-the-most-terrifying-thought-experiment-of-all-time.html
The evil clowns create both the pathology, “induced contagious, epidemic psychogenic illness” and the psyops which exploit it, constantly.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Whale_Challenge
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Momo_Challenge_hoax
https://indianexpress.com/article/trending/trending-globally/louisiana-man-tries-gorilla-glue-challenge-with-a-cup-ends-up-in-hospital-7188330/
DIG MEME PRAY
organic social media astroturfing was not in place to simulate outrage at \
[another social media event}
somewhere like
[Afghanistan]
in response to
(more social media)
so beoutraged
fill the patreon peons.
B4 the kid grows another tooth through his cheek.
we ought consider doing without laugh tracks
social media polls
YT paytriots and celebrities
to tell us how to feel
and think
about historical events, current events, social media events. events that never happened and mass public events about events not worth thinking about.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
EA Poe (Cont'd)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48860/the-raven
Try these bells
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me,
And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me.
Oh death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
Oh grave, thy victory?
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you but not for me.
attention schillers, dements, masons, pedovores and affiliated MSM onanist rif raff.