He’d never been a stage magician, never wore a velvet blazer or tried to hustle tourists on a crowded boardwalk. The mentalist’s gifts ran deeper, refusing to sit in the shallow pool of parlor tricks or peddled hypnosis. Sure, he could read micro-exp
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The lecture hall was airless, thick with the drag of night, the only light a mean spill that did nothing for the peeling blackboard. The professor stood up there with his sleeves rolled, hands powdered in chalk like someone dusted for prints and neve
Maybe you thought Hermeticism was all dusty books, incense, and solitary meditations—the slow grind of mental discipline, centuries-old formulas, words scratched into leather-bound codices by candlelight. A two-speed existence: either you sat cross-l
The office is dark except for the glow of the monitor and the blue haze of dawn pressing against the blinds. You sit at the desk, hands tented, watching your own breath fog the cold air—each inhale and exhale a metronome for the mind. The world outsi
Look, I’ll tell you straight: Mentalism, whether you’re talking the carnival show stuff or the deep-diving, consciousness-expanding esoteric journey, is a goddamn goldmine for a writer of speculative fiction and cyberpunk. Not that you’d need anyone
Are we living in a dystopia? Maybe it’s not quite that, not yet, but the line is thin enough to slip through, and I’d say we’ve already stepped into the first act of a cyberpunk era. If you’re not convinced, I’d suggest you actually read more cyberpu
I was hunched under the flicker of a dying fluorescent desk lamp, notebook full of code fragments open by my hand, the smudged keys of my battered laptop fighting for purchase beneath my restless fingers. The city sweated neon through my window, stin
