They Don’t Want You to Know

The IRS isn’t real — it’s a shell inside a shell. Paper laws enforced by men with guns, wearing ties like nooses. They say it’s legal, but they won’t show you the original document. The real one, not the signed copy. You ever ask for it? They laugh.

There’s something in the ink. Not metaphorically — I mean the actual printer ink. The receipts, the tax forms, the letters you get when you’re late. The envelopes buzz if you leave them near copper wiring. I don’t open them anymore. I hear it when I sleep.

They tell you it’s about money. It’s never about money. Money is just a leash they let you hold. The real currency is attention, and you’re paying it constantly. Every time you breathe, they collect interest. I tried to stop breathing once. It didn’t help.

I met a man who said he escaped. He tore up his Social Security card, burned his birth certificate, and walked east until the sky turned flat. I asked if they still found him. He just smiled and pointed at a tower that wasn’t there. I saw it too.

If this page disappears tomorrow, you’ll know why.