Kremlin Helpdesk

Vidare såg jag under solen: det är inte de snabba som vinner loppet, det är inte de tappra som vinner striden, det är inte de visa som får bröd, inte de kloka som blir rika, inte de kunniga som har framgång: allt är tillfällighet och slump.

The heat death of the universe is when things really kick into high gear. It's when the last civilizations start burning all the potential energy they've hoarded through the trillions of years, and given that it'll be really fucking cold, that civilization will live on for much longer past the heat death than they've lived before it, in some huge matryoshka brain floating around in a truly endless sea of nothingness, living out infinite time, and getting to feel superior to the paper hands that burned their matter in the warm days of stars and galaxies.

[Slitscan's audience] is best visualized as a vicious, lazy, profoundly ignorant, perpetually hungry organism craving the warm god-flesh of the anointed. Personally I like to imagine something the size of a baby hippo, the color of a week-old boiled potato, that lives by itself, in the dark, in a double-wide on the outskirts of Topeka. It's covered with eyes and it sweats constantly. The sweat runs into those eyes and makes them sting. It has no mouth, Laney, no genitals, and can only express its mute extremes of murderous rage and infantile desire by changing the channels on a universal remote. Or by voting in presidential elections.