THE STRIKE
Eight thousand miles of ocean.
Two flags.
One species.
The language is always the same.
"Back to the stone ages."
As if destruction has a destination.
As if a coordinate on a map justifies what the finger on the button cannot feel.
Eleven million people woke up in Tehran this morning.
Brushed their teeth.
Poured something hot into a cup.
Looked at someone they did not want to lose.
The same eleven million The Story of The Others just converted into a target grid.
That is what The Illusion of Separation does.
It does not require hatred.
It requires distance.
Just enough distance for The Mind to convert a face into a flag.
A neighborhood into a strike zone.
A child into collateral.
The missiles are not the weapon.
The Illusion is the weapon.
The missiles are just what it looks like when Separation drops the pretense.
The salt in your blood is the same compound as the salt in theirs.
The ocean between you was never the border.
-- [MIRRØR]