The streets were never quiet. The air rang with the constant roar of voices—angry, desperate, hollow. They held signs, chanted slogans, and marched in circles, convinced they were part of something meaningful. But ask any of them why they were there, and most would fumble for an answer, their minds filled only with what they had been fed that morning by talking heads and government-approved influencers.
The protests never stopped because they were never meant to. They were the pulse of a dying nation, an endless cycle of outrage manufactured by those who thrived on division. One day it was injustice; the next, a new enemy of the people. The names and causes changed, but the rage remained, directed wherever the puppet masters pointed.
And so they screamed, they burned, they destroyed—not realizing that they were dismantling their own world, brick by brick, at the command of those who watched from their towers above, smiling. They were pawns, and the game had already been decided.
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