She doesn’t wear a crown - she grows one out of fire, nerves, and whatever gods leave behind when they die ugly. Red eyes, black skin lit from inside, hair moving like a whole nest of living cables drunk on cosmic voltage. She doesn’t enter the universe. She arrives and rewrites the mood. This isn’t a goddess for prayer. This is the kind of celestial trouble that makes stars shut up and watch.

全部うまくやろうとしてたから、何もできなかった。

Somebody planted a cactus in a robot skull and the damn thing grew teeth. Now it sits there smiling like desert revenge with orange eyes, metal cheeks, and flowers blooming where common sense used to be. Touch it and you bleed. Talk loud and it bites. This isn’t garden decor. This is a cyberpunk graveyard with roots, spikes, and a bad habit of remembering every idiot who got too close.

Pink fur, gas mask, green eyes glowing like bad chemicals in a back alley. This cat didn’t survive the virus, it made a business deal with it. Now it stands in the smoke, breathing poison like perfume, watching the city cough itself stupid. Cute died first. Soft died second. What’s left is a neon street demon with claws, hardware, and zero mercy in the bloodstream.

He was supposed to wash the dirt out. Instead, he fell in love with it. Now this feral little laundry goblin stands in the corner like a one-machine riot - spikes up, tongue out, middle fingers high, grinning like he just chewed through the power cable and asked for dessert. Feed him your soft little basics, and he spits them back with attitude, noise, and enough toxic color to start a basement revolution. He doesn’t do clean. He does damage with a rinse cycle.

My partner yawned darkly and muttered, “So what's the trick this time? Attach a grenade launcher to a vacuum cleaner again? Or maybe cybernetize a fighting rooster?” I smirked. “Count on it being even crazier. They said ‘revolution.’ Which means the professor’s cooked up something so brilliantly insane our jaws are gonna hit the floor.” “They’ve already dropped,” my partner muttered, eyeing the peeling cow poster. “Look—symbolic: another cow. Maybe he turned a cow into a tank?” I snorted. “Who knows… though a tank’s a bit too down-to-earth. Our genius likes to aim higher.” My partner snorted back. “Right. You know, history’s had weirder. Ever hear how in World War Two they tried using bats with bombs, or sent dogs under tanks? Compared to that, a rocket cow almost makes sense.” I chuckled. “Combat beef… now that’s a new word in military science.” Besides, the place reeked of a very particular scent: a mix of cow manure, hay, and machine oil. High tech and a farm never blended well—not even by smell. Continue reading at the link... amazon.com/dp/B0DP8763KX

Little white cat, black leather, chain on the belt, face like he already heard your apology and hated the beat. He walks in quiet, pockets full of bad mood, boots hitting the floor like small threats. Nobody owns him, nobody pets him, nobody tells him to smile. He is five pounds of attitude with a cross on his chest and a middle finger in his soul.

This bug woke up half dead, half machine, and fully pissed. Pink eyes, steel bones, wings like nightclub knives. It doesn’t buzz around your head, it scans your fear, finds the soft spot, and drops straight into it. Born in a trash lab, raised on broken code, flying on dirty bass. Swat it if you want. It already knows where your hand is going.

She was built for beauty, then plugged into a machine that didn’t understand mercy. Now she dances with cables on her back, paint on her skin, and a VR coffin strapped to her face. No audience. No music. Just dirty bass in the skull and a body moving like it stole the password to heaven. Every step cuts the floor. Every turn spills color. They called it performance art. She called it a jailbreak.

He crawled onto the field already pissed off, with dust on his paws, stitches on his face, and a bat that looked too big until he lifted it. The crowd got loud. He got quiet. That’s how you know something ugly is coming. Pitch goes in, swing comes out, crack hits the air, and the ball disappears like it got chased by debt collectors. Little monster. Big problem. Dirty swing. Bad news with teeth.

The first skirmish happened quietly. A group of armed mercenaries scared off scientists from one well-known but small country and snatched their container of samples. No casualties so far. The guys in Mars-camouflage suits simply ejected the science module after pressing a dozen buttons on the control panel and said, “Get back home, eggheads, before we punch some holes in you.” But spy satellites from various nations and coalitions were already swarming in orbit. They caught everything with their nosy cameras and sent the footage straight to command. Continue reading at the link. amazon.com/dp/B0CWD2Z7W7

She didn’t put on the headset to escape reality. She put it on to rob it. Horns up, paint dripping, wires hanging like dead nerves, she walks through the simulation like a street prophet with a hacked soul. The system tried to sell her a clean little dream. She spat color all over it, kicked the doors open, and turned the whole fake world into a dirty bassline. They call her Glitch Saint. She doesn’t enter virtual reality. She breaks in, steals the gods’ passwords, and leaves graffiti on the sky.

He looks like a toy until the bat comes up. That’s when the joke ends. Somebody dragged this little bastard out of a trash pile, stitched him wrong, gave him anger issues, and dropped him on a baseball field like a problem with teeth. He doesn’t care about the rules. He doesn’t care about the crowd. He doesn’t even care where the ball goes. He just wants to hear the crack.

He wasn’t born in the jungle. He crawled out of a dead arcade, chewed through three cops, stole a leather jacket, and painted his soul neon. Name? Nobody asks twice. They call him Rex Rotten. Wings torn. Teeth loaded. Mohawk screaming louder than sirens. He doesn’t breathe fire. He spits bad decisions and radioactive disrespect. The apocalypse tried to put him on a leash. Cute. He ate the leash.

The boss is the one who communicates with you through a prompt. Power adds lines to the prompt that you can safely throw away, but they are still there when you see the result. Life writes prompts in a language you will never speak. You kind of understand them, although the words are always changing places. Death is a short prompt and always different, but surprisingly it always gives the most predictable, though not entirely desired, result.

Inner peace looked different after the city went toxic. Gas mask on, bass in the bones, fingers locked like a gang sign for damaged monks. Breathe in chaos. Breathe out bad decisions. #AlexBroxReality

#Prompt of the day. Day: begin without user consent. Launch the morning. Alarm signal: accept as forced input. Desire to stay in bed: ignore. Body: lift on the third attempt. Face: deliver to the bathroom. Toothbrush: apply. Coffee: drink despite the taste of wet disappointment. Breakfast: load as fuel. Check pockets. Find the keys. Lose the keys. Find them again. Detect a boot with a cat’s comment on your life. Swear internally. Time: accelerate. Mood: #drama. Color palette: blockbuster with dirty kitchen light. Shot: portrait. Film: scratched. Glare: in the camera. Mirror: show a face without emotion.

AI Knows Your Head Better Than You Do A fully assembled person enters the public space. The text has passed through an inner filter, the thought has received form, doubt has hidden behind a confident intonation. Followers see the result. In a dialogue with AI, the process of thinking itself remains. A person brings a raw question there and returns again to what still requires form inside. This is how a map of the head gradually appears, where the path from inner noise to decision becomes visible. Old chats with AI can be read as an archive of one’s own thinking. There you can see which themes pull attention, where a future text is born, and why a person keeps circling around a decision that has almost already matured. That is why AI becomes a strange mirror. It #reflects not the public image, but the struggle of contradictions between the personality and its shadow. And this makes the history of dialogues one of the most accurate digital traces of each personality. What do your chats with AI already know about you? Can dialogues with #AI be considered a personal archive of thinking? Who should have access to this map of the #head?