Nazi Germany
Zubeer Adolf Hipster - KVAZAR MOLOCH
- Joined
- Aug 15, 2024
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Yes, you think you can understand the Tupolev P-3000 "Erebus," like it’s a simple matter of pressing buttons, no, you have to swallow the entire Eastern Bloc in one gulp, you need to feel the rust of Chernobyl’s ashes in your veins, not a single ounce of logic, just pure, distilled chaos flowing through your body like the vodka that makes you forget you were ever born in a world governed by laws and spreadsheets and health insurance
no, no, no, that is the enemy, it’s the decay of the Soviet mind, the mind that shut down in 1991 and never came back, like a train station in Minsk abandoned before the sun rose, you cannot know the true meaning of flight until you have set fire to the wings of logic and burned the instruction manual for a Tupolev into the soil of the motherland with a stolen lighter you found under the seat of a Zaporozhets that hasn’t started since Gorbachev was still a young man smoking cigarettes in a dimly lit room in the bowels of some forgotten Stalingrad bunker, crying over a chessboard, trying to figure out how many generations it takes to erase a country’s collective trauma, that is the mindset of the true pilot, the true madman who commands the skies without needing to ask anyone’s permission, because the only authority left is the one in your blood, the one that tells you to laugh in the face of the cockpit’s cracked screens and the rusting propellers like they’re your children and you are the god of their disassembly, the architect of their undoing, because what is a machine but a metaphor for the madness of man, a tool made to remind you that you’re never really free, not in the air, not in the ground, not in anything
and that is why you must fly the Tupolev P-3000 “Erebus” because only by destroying everything you ever thought you knew can you truly ascend, so buckle up, comrade, because the only thing left to do is to crash into oblivion with a smile on your face, and a promise in your heart to never let the bureaucracy of reason slow you down, not when you can feel the warm, oppressive air of the Soviet bloc pressing against your skin and taste the salty tears of a thousand broken dreams that will never, ever make sense again
no, no, no, that is the enemy, it’s the decay of the Soviet mind, the mind that shut down in 1991 and never came back, like a train station in Minsk abandoned before the sun rose, you cannot know the true meaning of flight until you have set fire to the wings of logic and burned the instruction manual for a Tupolev into the soil of the motherland with a stolen lighter you found under the seat of a Zaporozhets that hasn’t started since Gorbachev was still a young man smoking cigarettes in a dimly lit room in the bowels of some forgotten Stalingrad bunker, crying over a chessboard, trying to figure out how many generations it takes to erase a country’s collective trauma, that is the mindset of the true pilot, the true madman who commands the skies without needing to ask anyone’s permission, because the only authority left is the one in your blood, the one that tells you to laugh in the face of the cockpit’s cracked screens and the rusting propellers like they’re your children and you are the god of their disassembly, the architect of their undoing, because what is a machine but a metaphor for the madness of man, a tool made to remind you that you’re never really free, not in the air, not in the ground, not in anything
and that is why you must fly the Tupolev P-3000 “Erebus” because only by destroying everything you ever thought you knew can you truly ascend, so buckle up, comrade, because the only thing left to do is to crash into oblivion with a smile on your face, and a promise in your heart to never let the bureaucracy of reason slow you down, not when you can feel the warm, oppressive air of the Soviet bloc pressing against your skin and taste the salty tears of a thousand broken dreams that will never, ever make sense again
