Anonymous
7/14/2025, 10:06:14 PM No.40724384
Nobody Thread – July 2025 Edition
“The world ended a long time ago. We’re just still getting the notifications.”
Nobody notices anymore. The news cycle loops in 5-second dopamine flashes, and the faces in the feed are all generated. Nobody cares that the wars are automated now. Nobody remembers what the last protest was even about—something to do with eggs? Maybe weather?
He watches from a distance, not because he wants to, but because there's nowhere left to stand. Nobody’s not resisting, not accepting, not even coping. He’s just… observing. Like a third-person camera glitched outside the map.
The cities are louder but more hollow. Everyone talks, nobody speaks. Every post is a confession in disguise. Every like is a cry for help.
AI runs the ads now. AI makes the music. AI generates the friends. Nobody saw it coming—despite screaming about it in thread after thread. Nobody laughed. Nobody watched as the soul of humanity got rewritten in patch notes and updates.
Nobody used to dream. Now he logs off and sits in silence. He hears the hum of a server farm somewhere, and it sounds like a prayer he forgot the words to.
The air smells like ash and vanilla vape.
They told him it was going to be okay.
They always do.
Nobody believes them.
“The world ended a long time ago. We’re just still getting the notifications.”
Nobody notices anymore. The news cycle loops in 5-second dopamine flashes, and the faces in the feed are all generated. Nobody cares that the wars are automated now. Nobody remembers what the last protest was even about—something to do with eggs? Maybe weather?
He watches from a distance, not because he wants to, but because there's nowhere left to stand. Nobody’s not resisting, not accepting, not even coping. He’s just… observing. Like a third-person camera glitched outside the map.
The cities are louder but more hollow. Everyone talks, nobody speaks. Every post is a confession in disguise. Every like is a cry for help.
AI runs the ads now. AI makes the music. AI generates the friends. Nobody saw it coming—despite screaming about it in thread after thread. Nobody laughed. Nobody watched as the soul of humanity got rewritten in patch notes and updates.
Nobody used to dream. Now he logs off and sits in silence. He hears the hum of a server farm somewhere, and it sounds like a prayer he forgot the words to.
The air smells like ash and vanilla vape.
They told him it was going to be okay.
They always do.
Nobody believes them.
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