> Demonic Influence on the Brazilian Government

We all know we live in a matrix functioning as an energy-harvesting farm. This energy is known as *loosh*—or human suffering on Earth—produced during the carbon transformation involved in respiration, ever since plants created the atmosphere within this demiurgic simulation. How do we know this yet remain indifferent to the lie? It’s simple: we are blinded by movies, soap operas, YouTube videos, and posts on Instagram and X; we obsess over the lives of neighbors and coworkers, or entertain ourselves listening to people spout nonsense on the bus, all while forgetting what truly matters—taking care of our own lives. After all, we are born alone and we die alone, and no one lifts a finger to quench our thirst without demanding a penny in return; or would you drink water from a river where someone is urinating? The main point is that this deranged environment wears down our patience; even if we have a deep reserve of it, eventually, the bomb goes off. It results in nothing but hatred and bloodshed. It is precisely this hatred and blood—interacting with our field of perception, whether through crime reports on the news or fictional portrayals where the Archons' excess is manifest—that mirrors the blood spilled in real-world alleyways, far from the glare of a camera that always seems to be right where the crime is happening, or the Hollywood cameras reflecting the corrupted scripts of ancient works. It is within this fractal of pain that one finds the quintessential example of the typical Brazilian—that hellish gambler playing a game of win-or-lose (I’ll speak more on that later). Yet, this very same Brazilian is the one who empowers demons to dictate laws and roam the streets armed, beating people while they hold a lighter and some weed. It is a bizarre spectacle—unless, of course, you are the one on the street holding the lighter, just before a shit-caked boot stomps on your neck and a fat, pig-like man in uniform tells you: "We’re just testing your audio!" As you struggle to breathe, you try to make sense of what the moron is saying, but you can't. The pressure of the gun barrel staring you down—pinning you against your own tree in your own "Valley of the Suicides" within this hellhole called Brazil—is simply too much. Then comes the mockery: "Are you an organ donor?" You find yourself wondering, *What is this man talking about, my God?* Sure, having your neck stomped on for smoking weed—back before decriminalization—is "normal," and having a gun barrel pointed in your face is too; but hearing this from a man who supposedly represents a "democratic" government—one I never asked to join in the first place—is just too much. But of course, one might ask *why*—and what does the stinking troglodyte say? "Because that way, you’ll have done something good for humanity." This actually happened to me back in the 2010s, but that’s not what worries me most. What worries me is the mental state of my parents—and the entire generation preceding mine in this country—who allowed an animal to hold a gun to protect other animals, all led by cannibalistic demons sitting in pompous, overstuffed armchairs, wearing their ties, headdresses, and religious turbans. The people who came before and created this circus called Brazil—who handed over the power to rule a free people to scoundrels, enslaving them in exchange for filthy bread from the trash—that’s what they wanted. They wanted to play the game and enjoy life, didn't they? So, they screwed us over and created this psychic cinema, manifested in projections cast upon the walls.