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The end time’s false prophet and idol made one.

Mar 17, 2026

He sits alone with aching mind and itching eyes.

A cold weight in his hand.

Numbing glow. Sleek and smooth.

The end time’s false prophet and idol made one.

He’s no notifications, and therefore no value, no purpose, no reason to be.

Scrolling…

He can’t even see what he sees. Vague shapes. A haze of colours. No depth. Nothing real.

His brain rots in real time.

Refresh. Recheck.

A notification.

His heart flutters. His hand trembles. Is this some trick? Some trap? Maybe it’s a sign of his validation and worth?

Maybe there’s a point to him after all.

He swallows and taps the bell.

One comment from Vie_Victus_XIII: You’re a fucking retard!

And then he’s alone again.

Terminally online, yet even online he hasn’t any friends. The people here are abstractions. Mere shadows on the wall. Warped simulacra of the barely real.

And even they reject him.

Scrolling…

Scrolling into the depths of night.

Restless mind. Broken sleep leading into broken days.

Until finally, he puts it aside and blinks through the haze and picks up a book. He reads a line, then another, then the first line again. These words make no sense. They’re so lifeless and dull.

Where’re the notifications? The dopamine? The existential angst? This thing of paper and ink has nothing to give.

He puts it aside and picks up his phone and he’s chained to the cloud again.

Once he tried to leave it behind, to go outside, to touch grass. But in his pocket the phantom buzz remained.

The birds sung songs of a notifying ding.

His phone called to him, wanted him back.

Trees all around him but he could not see. Grass beneath him but he could not feel.

Phantom buzz. Scattered mind.

He barely made it out the door before he turned around and returned to his phone.

One anxious itch is replaced by another.

Phone unlocked. No notifications.

Scrolling…

Maybe at the scroll’s bottom he’ll find what he seeks. But this scroll is long, a place of demons and lost souls.