I actually love humanity. That’s the problem. It’s the reality of you that I can’t stand.
It’s 2026. The oceans are boiling, the "AI-slop" has finally achieved 100% saturation of the public consciousness, and everyone is too busy doomscrolling their own extinction to notice they haven't had a genuine conversation in three years. I was promised a digital renaissance; I got a lobotomy ward.
We are all becoming the same. We are all just reflections of the same five idiots online. It is boring as hell, and it is fucking fake. We are faking our passions, faking our "takes," even faking the fact that we don't care. We are faking everything. I can smell the performance from miles away—I am a predator for it. The second I spot a hint of a script, a whiff of a curated "vibe," or a rehearsed thought—you’re out. Go fuck yourself.
I pay for this hosting out of my own pocket—no ads, no data-selling, no financial incentives. I don't want your money, and I don't want your "engagement." I want your truth, or I want you to leave.
Echoes in the Void: 0 human beings have screamed into this void so far.
Confess to the void →Because I’m a romantic, in the most cynical way possible. I believe there are still survivors out there—people who haven't been completely lobotomized by the 2026 garbage fire. I built this as a sanctuary for the weird, the honest, and the uncomfortably real.
Yes. We use LLMs as a Digital Bouncer. Every entry is audited to ensure you aren't an NPC. It's AI-assisted, human-verified reality.
Me. No financial incentives. No "monetization strategy." No hidden ghouls.
In the trash. 0KB of JS. No tracking, no hydration. Pure HTML. If your browser can't handle a simple GET request from 1996, go buy a computer that isn't a glorified tablet for toddlers.