TRANSITION FROM KALI YUGA TO SATHYA YUGA

DISCIPLINE THAT SEEKS TO UNIFY THE SEVERAL EMPIRICAL INVESTIGATIONS OF HUMAN NATURE IN AN EFFORT TO UNDERSTAND INDIVIDUALS AS BOTH CREATURES OF THEIR ENVIRONMENT AND CREATORS OF THEIR OWN VALUES


THE WORLD ALWAYS INVISIBLY AND DANGEROUSLY REVOLVES AROUND PHILOSOPHERS

THE USE OF KNOWLEDGE IS POWER

OLDER IS THE PLEASURE IN THE HERD THAN THE PLEASURE IN THE EGO: AND AS LONG AS THE GOOD CONSCIENCE IS FOR THE HERD, THE BAD CONSCIENCE ONLY SAITH: EGO.

VERILY, THE CRAFTY EGO, THE LOVELESS ONE, THAT SEEKETH ITS ADVANTAGE IN THE ADVANTAGE OF MANY — IT IS NOT THE ORIGIN OF THE HERD, BUT ITS RUIN.

LOVING ONES, WAS IT ALWAYS, AND CREATING ONES, THAT CREATED GOOD AND BAD. FIRE OF LOVE GLOWETH IN THE NAMES OF ALL THE VIRTUES, AND FIRE OF WRATH.

METAMATRIX - BEYOND DECEPTION

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06 May 2022

Staring Into the Abyss


I’ve always had a propensity to look too deeply into the darkness of the world. It draws me in, and in a sense I love it. Most of us do.

I recall when I was young seeing a bootleg VHS of Faces of Death with my middle school friends. Back then we didn’t have the internet where you can now click a few buttons and see the most disturbing images possible. Simpler times.

Someone recently sent me an email that I can only describe as a proper psychic attack. When I opened it up there was a large image looking right at me. Definitely the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen, and to be honest it fucked me up for a few days.

It wasn’t until I had a conversation about it with a friend that the psychic energy of it began to dissipate, but the experience reminded me of my own lust for darkness, which I believe many of us have. It’s really the only thing that can explain to me why people can be so demented and cruel.

I never thought that taking in images of death and destruction were anything to worry about until in 2013 during one of my first journeys with the shamanic plant medicine Iboga.

Iboga is a fascinating experience, and I’ve described it as a lifting of the veil between the conscious and subconscious mind. You get a chance to see into the abyss within your heart and soul and ferret out the crud swimming around in there. And there is a LOT of crud in there.

During that journey I learned that every image, every negative thought, and every psychic impression you’ve ever consumed sits deep within the soul rotting and festering, coloring you darkly in subtle and not so subtle ways.

So many talk about trauma and the need to resolve the traumatic experiences of your past, but I’ve heard few discuss the traumatic effects of consuming decades worth of violence and death, both the theatrical crap we call entertainment and raw footage of real human brutality.

I’m thinking about this today because I received an email this morning from someone who recently took a job at Google reviewing disturbing content to determine what needs to be censored from the search engine. Her work has her routinely looking at the most disturbing stuff imaginable, and she’s having what I see as a spiritual crisis, and is stuck between the need to have a job and income and knowing that the work is disruptive to her well-being.

Jung talked about the shadow side of man, and how important it is to integrate this part of you in a healthy way in order to live a mentally healthy and stable life. We are shadow beings. We are drawn to darkness, because we are in part darkness. When you’ve learned how to appropriately integrate this energy in a healthy way, the deeper into the abyss you are willing to look proportionately expands your ability to see into the light. It’s a double-edged sword that requires intention and discernment to handle.

In other words, shadow exploration can be a path to personal growth and expansion, but when there is no consciousness to how one approaches the darkness in our world and in their life, it pushes the psyche out of balance, and, as I believe, creates conditions ripe for mental illnesses like anxiety, depression and other neuroticisms.

As a self-sabotage coach, I speak in depth about how the contents and programs in the subconscious mind are the source of your self-sabotaging behavior. The subconscious does not know the difference between reality, what’s on the TV screen, or even what you visualize within your own mind. When you’re consuming darkness intentionally or inadvertently, the subconscious sees it all as real, and you’re adding crud to your programs that will effect the way you feel, think and behave.

Nietzsche figured this out a long time ago…

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.” –Friedrich W. Nietzsche

Protect your subconscious minds, people. It’s far important to your health, wealth and happiness than you may realize.

About the Author

Dylan Charles is a self-mastery and self-sabotage coach, the editor of Waking Times, and host of the Battered Souls podcast. His personal journey is deeply inspired by shamanic plant medicines and the arts of Kung Fu, Qi Gong and Yoga. After seven years of living in Costa Rica, he now lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where he enjoys serving, training, and spending time with family. He has written hundreds of articles, reaching and inspiring millions of people around the world. Follow Dylan on telegram here, and sign up for his weekly newsletter here. On Facebook.

Dylan is available for interviews and podcasts. Contact him at [email protected]. 

This article (Staring Into the Abyss) was originally created and published by Waking Times and is published here under a Creative Commons license with attribution to Dylan Charles and WakingTimes.com. It may be re-posted freely with proper attribution, author bio, and this copyright statement.

Your mother-in-law isn’t going to refuse the vaccine


May 6, 2022

Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not writing for your mother-in-law. I’m writing for you.

Your mother-in-law is still deciding whether to vote for Jimmy Carter or Ronald Reagan. She thinks J Edgar Hoover is Herbert Hoover.

A few readers have suggested I should make several adjustments, so my work is more “accessible” to the general public.

The general public is a collectivist cheeseball which has been sitting in a frying pan, with the flame set on low, for a very long time.

I published my first article in 1982. I’ve never made any adjustments.

Since then, I’ve only worked one change. I stopped taking assignments from editors. I don’t like them. I’ve always had the crazy notion that if editors want writers to carve away THIS and add THAT, they should write the pieces themselves. There are three reasons they don’t: they can’t write; they’re filled with self-importance; they’re lazy bureaucrats.

For me, writing has ebbs and flows. They depend on me finding a tag-end I like, which I then pull on. The article then takes shape. The tag-end might be a headline I read. It might be some absurd insane sentence uttered by a news anchor. It might be a scene in a dream. It might be an answer to the question, “What would be crazier than the last tag-end I found?”

If I can’t think of a tag, I sit here and stare at the wall and keep thinking. Or I watch a cooking show. Or I go over the five or six pretentious scuzzy reasons doctors deploy when they assure readers the virus exists. Or I fly my Gulfstream to London, where I dine with the Queen, and discuss how non-existent climate change will force us to eat insects for protein. Or I find a medical review admitting that, in 2001, only 18 flu deaths in the US could be traced to a flu virus. Actually, the number is zero. Or I reread the NY Times opinion piece which revealed the three major clinical trials of the COVID vaccines were designed to show the injection could prevent nothing more serious than cough, chills, and fever—after which the Times never mentioned the subject again. Or I consider how fear of the virus and love of the virus and the conviction the virus exists merge like a subconscious nursery rhyme. Or I imagine a time when men and women would have laughed off orders to lock down and would have gone about their lives without a second thought. And THAT’S a tag-end:

JULY 20, 2020. Look at what happened to a great city, to the people of that city, who over several decades were subjected to forms of cultural mind control…and who then became DIFFERENT.

…People turning into caricatures of themselves. In the process, they were ripened for takeover—which is what happened when the fake pandemic was declared.

New York. Once upon a time, I was married to it. No more. But it’s still my city.

I was born there. One of my early memories was looking across 2nd Avenue at a candy store. This was 1943. The candy store no longer sold Fleer’s bubble gum—the best bubble gum—because the latex was needed for the War effort. But the rumor was, they peddled it under the counter for an exorbitant two cents a chunk, with the cartoon inside the wrapper.

When I was 22, after growing up in the suburbs, I moved back to NY and for several years lived among some of the smartest asymmetric people in the world. You could have an argument with the dumbest person in the city and it would be a smart argument. Everyone had opinions, and they could back them up. There was no such thing as political correctness, believe me. If you had uttered the phrase, no one would have known what you were talking about.

New York was a great city. The thing was, no one was proud to BE a New Yorker. That false synthetic layer of goo came much later. In the old days, there was no pose, no artificial front. People had ideas, they had talent, they had survival instincts.

The best jazz musicians in the world lived and played in New York. When a giant like Bud Powell was playing at Birdland, you could get in for a dollar and sit in a hard wooden chair and listen to him until two in the morning. A buck for the greatest pianist in the world.

And now, the city is wrecked and boarded up, and the people are locked in.

Out on the street, the few aimless glazed pedestrians wear masks. They’re not the same people. They’re replacements. Pods.

OVERNIGHT, the people of New York could throw off the whole phony pandemic, not only for themselves, but the world. They could come out of their apartments and go back to work, defying the petty little lunatics like Cuomo and De Blasio. They could open up their restaurants and bars and stack in the customers. They could start building again. They could open wide the libraries and museums and fill the concert halls. They could open up the little groceries to all comers. They could laugh in the face of the public health authorities.

And it would be OVER.

In 1960, that’s exactly what would have happened. And not for some cause. Not for the chance to do a little virtue signaling. Not for the sake of “being a New Yorker.” For survival. For continuing to live their lives, people would have shaken off that slimy fraud Fauci like a five-minute bad dream. A joke played by an idiot.

They would have looked at the screaming lockdown headlines in the newspapers on the corner stand and shrugged and gone on their way. “You’re telling me I can’t walk down the street and listen to John Coltrane at the Jazz Gallery on a summer night? You’re out of your mind.” And the Termini brothers, who owned the club, would have packed the place even tighter than usual, just to thumb their noses at the mayor and his con artists. They would have put in a call to their contact at Democratic Machine headquarters. And it would have been OVER.

No one would have obeyed. Independent scholars would have walked into the 42nd St. library, as they did every day, and gone to the reference desk and asked for manuscripts on ancient Roman law and the Walt Whitman papers and the early maps of the city. The quiet upstairs macrobiotic restaurant on 2nd Avenue would have served supper as usual. The Cedar Bar on University Place would have turned in another raucous night. The Irish bars would have been jammed. A chamber orchestra in Washington Square Park would have performed Vivaldi, with the sounds of traffic from 6th Avenue in the background. Miles Davis would have played two sets at the Apollo. If Ravi Shankar was in town, he would have laid out a few stunning hours of ragas at the Asia Society and adjourned to an East Side apartment to continue on until dawn. No one and nothing would have obeyed a lockdown.

Pandemic? Virus? Get serious.

That New York…where is it? Who are all these flat minds swearing allegiance to medical fakery? Are they passively waiting for gold stars on the blackboard from the teacher?

In the old days, New York had DISDAIN. You didn’t get by with platitudes. You didn’t blithely mouth Left or Right and get away with it. The city was plugged into its own non-stop bullshit detector. What did you have to OFFER? Aimless blabbermouths were consigned to a special circle of Hell.

There was no political PROGRAM. Today’s “New Yorkers” would apparently be afraid to live in a landscape like that. They wouldn’t know which way to turn. They have a desperate need to become slaves to an IDEA. In this case, an idea about a virus.

In the 1960s, concealed by the Vietnam War, the city was undergoing a transformation into a cartoon of itself. That’s when the synthetic notion of “being a New Yorker”—based on nothing—started to take hold.

There were many reasons. The shrinking value of the dollar. Crippling street drugs. Mind numbing leveling television. The raising of children to be targets of advertising and fetish objects in a consumer society. The new New Yorkers were taught that liberal politics were a necessary adjunct of their status. Liberal equaled big government. Messaging from every possible quarter was aimed at turning the people of the city into servants of share and care as defined by government…

Going to doctors and acquiring serial diagnoses of physical and mental conditions was starting to take off as a social trend. The medicines and the vaccines were, of course, toxic. The city was taking in more immigrants than it could handle. There weren’t enough jobs. Desultory schools were steamrollered. Literacy was being destroyed. Even skyscraper architecture was moving away from unique structures like the Chrysler and the Empire State, into functional steel and glass boxes. Signs of the minds.

With people dumbed down enough, they would fall for any con. Any piece of shiny gloss. And it was eventually provided:

New York media covered the rise of New Money in the city as if it were a perfumed cultural signal of a dawning utopia. By the 1970s, envious intellectuals in the city were reading and admiring hyped chronicles of the emerging $$ stars of Manhattan: painters, fashioneers, stock speculators. And yes, Trump. The content of these celebs’ characters was entirely irrelevant. All that mattered was that their hustles were ringing up extraordinary sales in inflated dollars.

And finally, to view how thin and vulnerable new New York had become, and how brainless—when, in 2020, the fake pandemic hit, and lockdowns were announced, the population promptly folded, stayed indoors, went into mask and social distance mode without a whisper of protest.

In short order, the city was made over into abject wreckage, shuttered, obedient, loyal to a psychotic delusion.

In a silly song he recorded long after its internal demise, Frank Sinatra said New York was the city that never sleeps.

Now that’s all it does.

CODA: If the September 11th attacks had happened in 1960, there would have been no need for Billy Joel or the Yankees to rally “all New Yorkers.” The people of the city would have looked at the firemen and cops as human heroes risking everything for other humans. Period. That would have been enough. More than enough. That would have gone deep into souls and minds. Where it counts.

—Entraining minds. The job of the Super-State. Reworking independence into devotion to a synthetic pose of altruism.

But in this phony pandemic, it’s good to be BAD…

I’m not talking about looting and burning. I’m talking about a different type of BAD. Think it through. Figure it out. It’s always there, like a tag-end. You just have to pull on it…

11 February 2022

Sex and the Spiritual Path

https://youtu.be/gL4eAtMPm2Y

Feb 9, 2022

ALLATRA TV International 

Is it good or bad to have sex? Is sex love or physical activity? What is sexual energy? Flirting, sex, power: is it the dictatorship of images? What is chastity? What is celibacy? How does the system impose false feelings on a person? Is sex a hindrance on the spiritual path? 

Mysterious female nature. A woman as a source of power that begets life. Why was a woman forced to forget that she is a mother? Why was it said in ancient times that a woman is forty steps closer to heaven than a man? The internal fire of Love: how are the powers of Allat generated? 

What does a man not know about his own nature and the nature of a woman? Why do men strive for immeasurable wealth and power? What is the basis of sudden changes in mood, desires and passions? Why do men need power over women? 

FEMALE GROUPS IN THE HISTORY OF HUMANITY. 

ALLAT SISTERS: the heavenly birds, the spiritual heritage, and the true wealth of humanity. Why were the Allat Sisters called “heavenly birds” and deeply worshipped in ancient times? Why were there no wars and violence during a certain period of humanity’s history? Allat’hiara as assistants to the Allat Sisters. What was the cause of a decline in humanity’s spiritual development? 

Sophia’s group of the Knights Templar. What did the invincible might and secret force of the Knights Templar consist of? What was the Templars’ historical mistake? 

A sensational letter by a famous God-fighter. What happens to those who oppose spiritual forces, and what is this fraught with for society? What is hidden behind sodomy? 

Why can we recently observe a worldwide trend of decreasing sexual activity among people? Why are children with a development delay born? Why is the “celibacy syndrome” observed? The end times. Warnings of the ancients regarding the advent of the Angel of Apocalypse. The time of choice and decision-making. Whom do you serve? 

Videos with Igor Mikhailovich Danilov: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list... 

"THE SERVICE" https://allatra.tv/en/video/the-service 

"CLIMATE. THE FUTURE IS NOW" https://allatra.tv/en/video/climate-t... 

Anastasia Novykh. Book AllatRa https://allatra.tv/en/book/anastasia-...  

https://allatra.tv/en 

[email protected]

06 February 2022

MILITARY INSIDER: They Panicked When They Saw The Future

https://youtu.be/uoREKB5KUsw

Aug 17, 2021

 
This was recorded over a decade ago and makes it even more incredible as we see the events described unfold on the planet today. 
 
▹ Watch the full interview here 👉🏽 https://youtu.be/VtHCofbE1PM 
 
▹ Special thanks to Project Camelot & Kerry Cassidy 👉🏽 https://projectcamelotportal.com/ 
 
We love that you are here 🙌🏽 👉🏽 https://www.inspiredchannel.net

20 January 2022

I Have Isolated The Virus Lovers

As we know, there are many people who believe in the existence of viruses with all the certainty and passion they can muster.

After exhaustive research over a period of 14 years, in the lab, I’ve isolated, purified, and identified 16,768 distinct types of these virus lovers.

I’m now negotiating with Pfizer to develop a vaccine against each type. (Pfizer doesn’t care what a vaccine does; it only cares about marketing and money.)

From my vault, here is a profile of Type 6,659. See if he seems familiar.

Of course, he thinks of himself as “science-minded.” He likes models. He LIKES the notion of vast interconnected systems. Studying these systems feels stabilizing. Also feels like a warm bath with soft music in the background.

Closed systems—with the emphasis on CLOSED—appeal to him. Like crosswords puzzles.

Games are good. Chess, for example. If only the world were like chess. All the pieces on one board. Rules for their movements.

You can’t let someone move a piece off the board. That would be absurd. And you can’t let a person bring a piece on to the board from God knows where. We must have order.

Tight control.

Look at giant armies on parade, in the US, in the old Soviet Union, in China. Especially China. Perfect lines and rows. They’re heartening to him.

Look at a flower. It, too, is perfect. As you look deeper, into its structure, every tiny piece has its place.

What about its VITALITY?

Hmm. The microscope doesn’t show that. So this virus lover can discount it.

What about the vitality of a person? Must be a myth. Analysis only reveals interlocking structures. As in a machine.

Look at two people. The first one is sitting in a chair. His skin seems to be a shade of gray. He’s obviously fatigued. Not much going on. The second person is running through a field at top speed. But not just running. His stride seems to be elastic. He’s…what? Free? Alive?

This virus lover says: Nonsense. The only differences between these two people would be found and explained, inside their bodies, in the operating levels of systems.

One machine runs well; the other doesn’t. What else could be going on? Nothing. The first person needs to go to the shop for repair. That’s all.

Because closed structures are the totality of reality.

Of course they are.

Sure.

You bet.

No doubt.

Uh-huh.

And when you take away a closed system from this virus lover, this addict who must have it, he shudders.

When he was a child, he played with a train set his parents bought him for Christmas. The train ran through a little village. It was breathtaking.

The world must be made into the train set.

The idea that systems and structures rest on something else—something ASTONISHING that can’t be plugged into equations—is alien to him. It doesn’t register.

Maybe someday, when he’s 90, and he’s sitting on the back porch dozing away, it’ll suddenly come to him. But for now, he has to have Closed Order.

Nothing can be disposed of. Certainly not the existence of the virus.

If you could send a vast parade by him; the works of thousands of artists who painted, for hundreds of years, beyond any system; he wouldn’t have a clue what he was looking at.

If you told him, LIFE SUPERSEDES THE GERM, he wouldn’t know what you were talking about.

When he enters his local Whole Foods, he looks for the hand sanitizer. He needs to have that goo on his hands.

In person, he seems friendly enough. But, for instance, if he owns a business, and you could walk in and stand in the corner and watch, you’d see he treats his employees like lowly peasants.

He’s in a rage. He really doesn’t know why. But he’s madly pursuing some sort of fictional perfection which should be met but somehow can never be met. Because it’s all in his mind.

He’s huffing and puffing because he must maintain his own mind as if it’s columns and rows of figures.

Take one number away and the whole structure could collapse.

It turns out he’s wrong. Dead wrong. His mind isn’t rows of figures, and nothing collapses when he stops obsessing, except obsession itself.

But he wouldn’t know that.

And he would say he’s defending the existence of the virus as just a matter of science. Good science. The best science.

Rounding out this portrait of what I would call a high-IQ-idiot, let’s say he owns a Rolex. He wears it every day. Prized possession. He looks at it the way an adoring child looks at his father.

As a lark, a joke, a little test, you tell him you want to remove a tiny piece of the internal works of this watch. Just one tiny piece.

You’d better step back.

If he’s packing heat, he’ll draw on you.

If he has the wherewithal and the clout, he’ll call in a drone strike.

This is a man who, standing in front of the mirror in the morning, takes ten minutes to trim his moustache.

And that’s just a segment of hair on his face.

You’re talking about his ROLEX.

Virus, virus, virus. His world MUST contain the virus.

To hold off the nameless Doom.

Let him go, walk away.

Part Two

As I mentioned the other day, in Part 1, after 14 years of laboring in the lab, I’ve isolated, purified, and identified 16,768 distinct types of virus lovers.

These are people who must say the virus exists. They’re compelled, obsessed.

And in Part 1, I profiled Type 6,659.

Today, I’m going to describe Type 846.

He’s definitely “alternative.” And he thinks of himself as a card-carrying “member of the alternative community.”

But he has a problem. He observes that within his own community—which is battling against the official powers-that-be—there are RUFFIANS.

Ugh.

And these ruffians are claiming the virus doesn’t exist. A few are even saying no viruses exist.

He believes the ruffians are giving his community a bad name. The public will now see the community as generally ruffian-istic.

And to head this off at the pass, guess what he does?

He names the ruffians. He advertises them. He puts up posters on walls.

The public—which was unaware of the ruffians—and the official press and government—which already have 9,453 talking points aimed at burying the “alternative community”—NOW see the virus lover’s advertisements, and say, “Well, these alternative people are even worse than we thought they were.”

When this virus lover was a boy, he headed up a “community” in high school called Students for Academic Excellence. The main thrust of the group was: Football is overemphasized; we need to highlight young scholars; teachers shouldn’t give football players passing grades they don’t deserve.

Well, one night the virus lover and a few of his alternative pals were walking around on the football field, and just outside the end zone they saw a small pile of leaves.

One of the boys said, “Watch this,” and he lit the pile on fire, and he produced a few long sticks and a box of marshmallows, and all the boys sat down and roasted the marshmallows and ate them.

A neighbor peering through his window saw this, and the next day he called the principal of the school.

The principal checked one of the video cameras posted on a tree near the end zone, saw who the boys were, and called them into his office. He said, “What you did was terribly dangerous and outrageous. I’m going to pretend this never happened. If I catch any of you committing an infraction of any kind this year, I’ll call your parents and suspend you. Now get out of here and behave yourselves.”

So the next day, the young virus lover writes a letter, prints copies, and posts them everywhere on campus. The letter describes the horrific marshmallow incident, and concludes: “I swear I had no knowledge that Harry, Fred, and Mason were going to burn the leaves. I was there, but I didn’t participate. I didn’t eat a single marshmallow. Our group, Students for Academic Excellence, is dedicated to achieving higher test scores and overcoming the football hysteria which engulfs our campus. We do not support the marshmallow actions of a few outlaws who carry membership in our group. Pay no attention to them. They’re distracting from our goal.”

Suddenly, a number of students are talking to Harry, Fred, and Mason. “Do the leaves burn fast? Does the fire go out by itself or do you have to pour water on it? How long are the sticks for the marshmallows? Which brands of marshmallow do you buy? Do you roast them until they turn brown or black?”

A week later, having disconnected several video cameras, another nameless group of students burns a pile of leaves on the 50-yard line and roasts marshmallows and sings the Stones’ I Can’t Get No Satisfaction. Possibly, beer is involved.

Meanwhile, the parents of ruffians Harry, Fred, and Mason are having marshmallow roasts with their sons. Harry’s father, who owns a café in town, puts up a big sign above his door: FREE ROASTED MARSHMALLOWS WITH EVERY PURCHASE OF FISH AND CHIPS. His business booms.

A local band, who has a standing gig at a bar on Main Street, unveils their new song, STEAL THIS FRIGGIN’ MARSHMALLOW.

The young virus lover sends a letter to the editor of the town paper: “This is exactly what I feared. One marshmallow roast in the end zone, perpetrated by a few scofflaws, has resulted in a contagion of demeaning incidents. The national press will undoubtedly cover this and make a mockery of our county…”

Flash forward to the present day.

This is what is happening. The virus lover, who now writes for an online publication called REBELLION WITH SANITY, NO RUFFIANS ALLOWED, is penning articles which express support for the existence of SARS-CoV-2. He is receiving a number of emails from, yes, ruffians, some of whom are offering detailed arguments against the existence of the virus. This is annoying and troubling.

It occurs to the virus lover that he can, through the exercise of massive self-control, ignore these emails, forget about them, and write about other vital issues of the day.

But alas, his skin has been gotten under. He can’t walk away.

He has to advertise the ruffians.

He feels the need to distance himself from them while naming them and alerting readers to their existence.

He declares them irresponsible, disreputable, and craven.

He may be suffering from a syndrome called SELF-UNDERMINING WITH DEVELOPMENTAL DELAY OF RECOGNITION OF IMPLICATIONS ACCOMPANIED BY EXCESSIVE AND IRRELEVANT HYPER-VIGILANCE.

Finally, after he attempts to dismiss the ruffians by naming them and advertising them, he argues his own case: the virus exists because it exists. Those medical professionals who can be trusted say it exists.

Although these professionals say the vaccine is safe and effective—which claim is absolutely false—when they say the virus exists, they are absolutely correct.

It’s magic. By chance, they are horribly and dangerously wrong over THERE, but they are true-blue and majestically honest over HERE.

I admire this form of logic. It has a surreal quality which matches the surrealism of the entire fake pandemic story.

by Jon Rappoport (January 19, 2022)

https://nomorefakenews.com/