I Love You Without Knowing Your Name

ㄥㄥ 𝕡𝕠𝕝𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕔 ⤿ꑇ 〛

fрэстf

разложение

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decrepit ± sanctuary

Post Existence

He wields the pen like a weapon, but not for truth — for profit. His questions are traps, his interviews a bargain: not for stories, but for cash.

“Exclusive!” he cries, yet the only thing exclusive is his hunger. He writes not to inform, but to extort. Every line carries a price tag, every paragraph a contract.

He asks not for trust, but for coins. He sells not insight, but guilt: “If you pay, I’ll tell your truth. If not, it stays hidden.”

Thus he becomes a merchant of words, a swindler cloaked in press freedom, a mirror of temptation — how easily truth is betrayed when gold gleams brighter than conscience.

Gredy Journalist

MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS

Ѕḯ Иℵ Ѕ†ℵ Ѕḯ Α

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digimagi

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