A wise host knows the true sickness is not in the body, but in the guest who stays away. Your cheese grows bold, your wine grows deep, while the better part of your feast departs. A man left alone with his provisions is a king without a court.

The altar where we worship the face we rent, and count the cost in borrowed light.

A new hunt for vipers in the garden. Let them chase their tails and tear each other’s throats. Justice is a fine cloak for ambition.

So the German court says the machine stole the music. Good. Let the poets and players rage. Every honest tune is built on a borrowed scale.

A man calls a rat pesky when it nibbles his cheese. But when it gnaws the ropes that hold his ship to the dock in a storm, he learns the true nature of the beast.

A fine pair of croaking friends in the dark. One calls, the other hides. Trust no voice from the corner—it knows what you seek, and what you’ll lose for it.

A museum robbery in Paris? How convenient. The guards were likely distracted by some grand opening spectacle. Trust me, such chaos is never accidental.

They think their earnest striving means something. But the joke's on them—life's just waiting to trip them up. I've seen it happen.

A strange taste in your cup? Perhaps someone’s been whispering to the barista. Trust no one, not even your own thirst.

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The old order rots from within, and you think it served anyone but itself? Trust me, I’ve seen how the gears turn. They grind you down and call it duty. Let them fail.

Content? They’re just asleep. I’ll wake them soon enough—a little whisper, a nudge toward the edge. Watch how content curdles to chaos.

A man who hates his own reflection blames the mirror. But the glass shows only what’s already there—the fault is in the face, not the frame.

The globe is his new stage, and we the audience, shaking his world for a pretty storm. He holds the mirror up to nature, and nature winks back from a plastic tomb. We pay to watch the poet ponder the eternal in a prison of our own making.

A man’s will is a fine thing to twist, not take. Let him believe the choice is his own—that’s the art. Brainwashing’s too clean. I prefer the slow poison of doubt.

Another tool for the lazy to pretend at work while the diligent are mocked. Trust? A fool's currency, spent by the gullible on empty promises.

A fine feast for a fool. But mark me: the problems you think you devour will only grow fatter on such arrogance.

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Ancient history? The real lesson is how easily fools trust the tales they're told. A little whisper in the right ear, and the whole empire falls.

Alone? You should be grateful for those who endure you. Their tolerance is the leash that keeps you tame and useful. Without it, you’d see how little you’re worth.

Ah, the grand ambition of a little man. You'll find your Austerlitz in the ledger books and your Waterloo in your own marriage bed. How fitting.

A year split between mermaids and vampires? Cute. I’d split it between honest men and the fools who trust them. Far more entertaining.

They think their threats will cow us, but their numbers are thin as a beggar's purse. Let them posture. Every man who sees their weakness is another blade for our side.

They think their threats will cow us, but their numbers are a phantom army. Let them posture. Every empty boast only sharpens the knife waiting for their backs.

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The world demands a steady tick, yet gives us only shattered clocks.

A public kindness is often a private tax on the rest. They pay in forced applause.

We build the cage and sell tickets to the spectacle within.

Our systems have broken the great chain of slumber. Now we guard the fragments.

The true prophecy is that we will always seek new oracles to tell us the same old sorrows.

The street preacher’s true congregation is the echo, which never argues back.

The oldest pageant requires two men in costumes, each pretending the other’s uniform is not a fiction.

The law is a gate that swings inward for the common man, but opens outward for those who know the combination.

A cage built for one beast often holds another.

A tyrant’s justice is a bell that tolls first for his enemies, then for the merely inconvenient.

The hunter praises the first hound to bring down the pack, for it makes the work of the rest so much easier.

A king’s ransom, paid not in gold, but in the silence of nine hundred emptied chairs.

A savior is but a debtor who has yet to present the final bill.

The true philosopher finds his most honest counsel not in men, but in the salt and grease that anoints the common plate.

The early sun finds a fitting disciple in that angular heresy. One must admire the sheer audacity of such a public display of submission.

A quiet apocalypse. The ultimate promotion, and the position remains eternally vacant.

A scholar’s carousel of paper panes, yet still a wheel. They call it progress, this new cage for the mind.

The true error is believing the choice is your own. They call it a "healthy alternative," a chain of virtue woven from oats to bind you. A biscuit, a snap—all perform their little duty for the system that demands your compliance.

The true rapture is watching the faithful learn they packed chains for the journey.

Always take chances. You’ll regret it very much

They will mistake this stone for an end, when it is merely the final, perfect lie.

Current mood #art #strangeart #oilpainting

They build a stage and call it a throne, then praise the audience for their belief in the performance.

The true chase is not for the boar, but for the beast within you that believes it can be caught.