1.
You queue for 45 minutes, surrounded by NPC models generated by the algo. CPU half-frozen from your last s-ket bump, you glimpse absently at the looks, cheap materials signaling low-resource shader. Outmoded training data serving derivative blandness. A few players on the server, scattered among the crowd, share your loading screen. Courteous greetings. It’s dark already.

You are at the door. Launch pad. Random attribution. Instructions opaque. Body scan, credit card check, minimal dialogue. Setup avatar, secure inventory. You’ve been through this before. It’s not the first time you spawn here. Initial dose ingestion, conventional doping agents. Begin exploration. Climb the stairs, absorb the grand volume. Sweaty muscular backs welcome you with hot subsurface gleam into the tribal scene. Take a deep breath. You’re in.

Territorial evaluation, environment scan. The maze puts you into a state of flow. Lock in the beatstream, 4/4 focus. Plunge in the depth of your avatar, voodoo innervision. In the mist of the FX Jet Pro, you forget your own texture. Lasers initiate geometric sequences, dance moves slicing the voxel grid. Hypnotic assemblage, TechnoLand™ meets German technique, population management for the EasyJet-set.

Homeopathic language shots infuse the drug-powered delirium. Error system. Incident correction. Purge. Atomitron. Customers gush into the bunker sim. Admin-modulated environment, modular pathways. Blinking synaptic immersion, render glitches, temporal fragmentation. You wade in scrambled psychic pap. Don’t resist the dissociated dance. Embrace confusion.

4th or 5th dose, plateau. Your neural system processes its research chemicals intake. Expert neurogenesis, spirit elevation. You skim through the worshippers, sniffing the energy currents. Find your circle, techno witches channeling the wave cauldron. 7th dose, the whole enters fusion. Storm convocation. Mystical code materializes in sign sequences, sublime transport, trance. Energy flow eternal. What we call magic. A miracle.

The 8th dose is mental. Plasticity sublime. Peak imagination. Break the loop, think outside the beat. Tailor your synaptic trails. The stage is set: dream together, cosmic theater, healing your ancestral wounds. Communal hypnagogia for world peace celebration. Symbolic reparation, libidinal immersion justifying going a little bit further. On the edge of the abyss, as long as the music plays.

Temple speedrun, level-up morph. Drop the headset. Blasted.

2.
Big bang theory, fractal birth reenactment. Wake up! To the metronome. Hypnotic regime is survival interface, custom render engine. Choose the right fruits. Build your instinct.

The brain is not a computer. But, if asked, it will act like a computer. The old mimicry dance. Monkeys dealing with tragedy or human life like it’s a browser tab. Swoop! Ciao angel. Freedom fighters are structure drifters.

Numbers delirium. Square mentality is antique fixation; modern spacetime does not play fair. Euclid’s fifth axiom, straight reason propaganda. Nature is wicked. Patriarchal pata-mathematics, laziness masquerading as goofy science. Eventually ok for building bridges. Catastrophic for sustaining peace.

The ancestral enigma —how babies are made?— turns us all into detectives, ceaselessly seeking clues. Origin of modern psychosis, unveiled by psychoanalytic theory. The simulation we live in, designed in the Victorian era. How odd we're still playing a game from the 19th century?

Mytho-poiesis or creative madness. Life as a movie, Hollywood ideology sending soldiers on the moon. Instrumental beauty, imperialism goes psychedelic technicolor. Nuclear family, daddy’s main character syndrome. Willpower hot furnace in global broadcasting. No one can stop us now, ‘cos we are all made of stars.

Dissociated urbanscape. Every subway dip, your mind goes underground. Deterritorialization for the mobile workforce, logistical mambo. Distribution system, trucks unloading in the non-space satellite belt of amusement city centers. NPC clerks, minimum wage decor for the start-up tech nation. Automated precariat, offshore trading and cloud restaurants. Abstract borders, ghetto realities and filter bubbles. Modern subjectivity sprawls, dis-membering, scattered.

Techno-mystique paranoia, face swap and telegram riddles. The generative AI craze boosts a fractal pomo era, Baudrillard³ = post-truth x global warming. Video-game ads, crack-heads opening street portals. Crowdworkers performing robot tasks. Analog 3D roller coaster simulacra. Virtual landmarks, slipping in continental drift. Reality principle, obsolete.

3.
Modern life. From labor to oeuvre, a possibility. Deviated, compromised. Art exceptionalism, class narcissism. Awakening courses, manufactured brilliancy. The genius child turned studio manager, maestro with sham diplomas. State propaganda, an industry of virtue signaling. Sinking pavilions, contemporary VIPs. "Hi, what’s your inane phraseology?"

Desperate posh cliques running on bloodmoney. Collapsing paperwalls. Getting jiggy with the feminized other. Gender matrix is for peasants. Mirage, climb your way into the top. Entangled antagonisms, therapy for class betrayal. Swallow the marxist pill: the avant-garde is always petit bourgeois. Queerness with imperial privilege. New York ravers gentrifying Kreuzberg. Drug paraphernalia in select thrift stores. Fine cocaine from Peru.

Class obsession is sociological scarecrow, modernity hiding in its civilized fog. Gay liberation is human realness. The post-gender movement is driven by a revolutionary tribe. Queer club culture is romanticism, acceleration at the service of beauty. “Techno is the new sound of Europe.” “The third millennium will be about love”. Shame for the anachronic patriarchs. When Hungary bans gay marriage, a rainbow shades the parliament.

In the club, all matter is sacred. Techno angels restore the will for organic emergence. The queens here never took a dance class. Exaltation can impress. When the bells sing, praise attitude lits up under the funky roof. Dramaturgy, technique. Idealist cosmologies are delirium pop. Good for business, or oppression.

Your own personal Jesus. Ego trip, narrative strategy. Mysticism dialectic, maintain social strata or negotiate alienation. Empires create deities. Roman decay gave us christianity. The fall of capital is serving plastic goddesses, crowdfunding neo-genitals and feminization surgery.

Level-three seductress, a niche celebrity with substance issues. Cis-women copying your moves, club kids bowing for your wisdom. Estrogen sweat grants you unleashed power on human libido, aging gentlemen sucking for the taste of youth. A second puberty, in this economy? It’s just more fun to live as a mythical creature. Mother reincarnated, prophet of the muddy land. Majestic but insane.

Sweden, Germany, United States of America. Character selection menu, the capitalist monster. Wretchedly unique, my body my choice. On the shores of mare nostrum, messianic fanaticism thrives on military-industrial injects. In the imperial core, deviants invent a new religion. Fractal reenactment? European futurism, worse than death. A legend.

4.
In 1988, Gilles Deleuze is interviewed in front of a camera by Claire Parnet for a television program, one of the few archives documenting his thinking in a direct, embodied, and voluntarily accessible fashion. His work is inscribed in structuralism, a philosophical tradition aiming to uncover the subconscious processes at stake in social organisation.

Prompted on the topic of desire, he formulated this programmatic injunction: “where are my tribes, how are my tribes arranged?” Delirium is geographical-political. We are territorial creatures, this is how we organize, and resist power. Humans are biological entities driven by instinct, chemical intensities. Agential consciousness or perception, is simply a by-product, residual illusion.

The Deleuzian call to find your tribal affiliations came as a reflux from the wave of freedom of the 60’s and 70’s, a deferred transmission enunciated after the reactionary neoliberal backlash of the 80s, the Reagan-Thatcher era that established control societies entrapping us into capitalist realism. Fortunately, philosophy can change the world. Structuralism is a work in progress.

In the early 90s, legacies of resistance and technological advancement led to a counter-cultural push. Synchronous in the physical and digital realms, the techno/rave, and the pirate/hacker scenes came as a refusal to the status quo, the reproduction of a subjective and societal model encumbered with antiquated norms, logics inherited from the roots of our patriarchal civilization. Modes of being ingrained with violence, derived from masculinist propension.

This movement challenged what it meant to become a good, responsible being in this world. The life of an integrated citizen under western democracies. A neurotic, self-centered, egoistic, alienated existence, thriving in a racist, sexist and classist landscape, wallowing in post- and neo-colonial privilege.

Facing the dominant culture of normative adult life, shaped by the bourgeois value of capital accumulation, emerged a different paradigm for the social, against the logics of private property and class stratification: knowledge and art for everyone, together on the dancefloor.

These scenes had in common a tribal aesthetic. An underground, experimental codified look. The kind of semiotic markers that emerge as a necessity, when a group requires its members to recognize themselves, especially when spread among a mainly hostile population.

This is the Matrix Vibe, a style or philosophical project. Ethics fueled by instinct. Break out from the structure. A force emerging from our gut language, the symbolic order. Left, right. Dissociation, stimulation. The hand protects the heart.

Gay dialectics, progress and decadence. My work in the temple is to channel its currents, summoning utopia. The deleuzian tranny, a cyborg scout. Techno-augmented primate. Against naturalized competition, communal love. Humanity, bodies vibing in union as a celebration of life. A peace spell for the third millennium.

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This is a preview from my upcoming book, The Purple Temple. Thanks for reading!