Hell in a handbasket
Where are the ones who won’t nod just to nod, the ones who sit out the parade, who don’t clap for empty things, who ask why and then ask what else, what more, what better—who move through systems like Satan’s smoke, unseen but undeniable, reshaping without announcing, rethinking it all, hungry, unsatisfied with the hollow, breathing life into the rigid, cutting paths through the overgrown, the dead, the flattened.
Where are the ones who won’t package resistance into content? Who won’t flatten complexity for likes? Who care more about actual shifts than the illusion of caring? Who refuse to pander to the crowd, refuse to play nice for the algorithm, refuse to mimic conviction just to trend.
Where are the ones who don’t conceal personal gain in false morality, don’t drape self-interest in virtue, don’t repackage ego as some morphed, vacant, destined to fail kind of narcissistic activism.
Where the fuck are the unbought, the unbothered, the unafraid?
It’s time to pack our baskets, let’s go!
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© 2025 DISTILLIST.
