THEY’RE OUT THERE, AND THEY’RE IN HERE, TOO

By C. Boi, The Nigh End Times – February 28, 2021

They call February the shortest month—but tell that to the ones of us who’ve been staring down the barrel of our own government since January 6th. We ain’t even sixty days in, and already the masks are coming off—well, the metaphorical ones, anyway. The literal ones? They want you to keep those on ‘til your spirit chokes.

Let’s be clear: what happened at the Capitol wasn’t just some unplanned riot. It was bait. A carefully laid honeytrap meant to stir the hive, draw out the hornets, and tag every single one of ‘em with a glowing beacon. You don’t have to trust me—just follow the surveillance trail. Geolocation. Social media scrapes. Facial recognition. Hell, they probably scanned the molecules in your sweat through your screen.

But while the world pointed fingers and played party politics—left versus right, red versus blue—I kept watching the sky. You know what I saw?

Something flying over New Mexico.

February 21st. American Airlines Flight 2292. Pilot radios in: “Do you have any targets up here? We just had something go right over the top of us.” Long. Cylindrical. Fast. And no blip on radar.

FAA can’t explain it. Pentagon shrugs. AARO ain’t even returned my last twenty letters. But here’s the kicker: this ain’t new. This is just the latest leak in a faucet that’s been dripping since Roswell. Only now, they don’t need to cover it up. They just drown it out.

And that, my friends, is the new MKUltra.

They don’t need LSD anymore. They’ve got algorithms. Feed loops. Dopamine hits from likes and outrage bait. While you’re busy owning libs or dunking on boomers, they’re mapping your brain in real time. You think scrolling Instagram is harmless? That’s not a thumb swipe—it’s a fingerprint. And they’re building a replica of you inside the machine.

Every click is a confession.

Now here’s where it gets nasty. Because while we’re all turned against each other, watching the freak show unfold on our black mirrors, there’s an invisible war happening in plain sight.

The old MKUltra? It was about mind control, sure—but it was also about obedience. Compliance. The ultimate goal was never just to crack open your brain. It was to install a belief system so seamless, you’d think it was your own.

And they’ve succeeded.

People think they’re choosing sides. Democrats. Republicans. QAnon. Antifa. But they don’t realize those teams were drafted by the same coach. You’re not fighting the enemy—you’re auditioning for your role in their next act.

Meanwhile, back in D.C., they’re quietly rounding people up. January 6 wasn’t the revolution—it was a census. And they’re using that list to test out a whole new surveillance program. You seen the stories? People turned in by their own family. Arrested off a Facebook post. Fed time for memes.

You don’t have to love what they did to realize this ain’t justice—it’s theatre.

And don’t think this is just a domestic affair, either. No sir. You think the alien craft flying over New Mexico was just happenstance? Think again. There’s a pattern, if you know where to look. Military bases. National labs. Energy corridors.

They’re checking up on their assets.

Because make no mistake—these visitors? They’ve been in business with our so-called leaders for decades. Eisenhower made the handshake, but every president since has kept the deal going. We give them cover. They give us tech. You think fiber optics and stealth bombers came from American ingenuity? Ha.

And now, they’re not just observing. They’re auditing.

Because this planet’s being terraformed—and not just in the climate-change way. It’s spiritual. It’s psychic. They’re altering our minds, our values, our instincts. And the elite? They’re the chosen middle managers of the transition.

You ever wonder why every high-profile politician seems off? Dead eyes. Plastic skin. Robotic smiles. You think that’s Botox?

Nah. That’s hybridization.

And while they’re busy playing alien dress-up, the rest of us are numbed into compliance. Mask mandates. Cancel culture. Stimulus dependency. All to soften you up. To keep you from asking why our skies are full of silent triangles and why every attempt to talk about it gets drowned out by Kardashian drama.

And if you do wake up? They’ve got a label for you: extremist. Domestic terrorist. They won’t just disagree—they’ll disqualify your very existence.

But don’t get me wrong. I don’t stand for any party. This ain’t about Left or Right. They’re two sides of the same corrupt coin, flipped by a hand you’ll never see.

And I don’t stand for any country, either—not anymore. I stand for the truth. And that truth doesn’t wave a flag. It’s not painted red, white, and blue. It’s older. Rawer. Burned into our bones before we had language to scream it.

We were born free.

And the second we forget that, they’ve already won.

Now let’s talk about the real rot: the black-masked priests of Silicon Valley. The billionaire class who think their seed is divine and their thoughts are gospel. You ever notice how every one of them suddenly wants to go to space? Bezos. Musk. Branson.

Why?

Because they know what’s coming.

Maybe they saw the craft. Maybe they’re part of the plan. Or maybe they just don’t want to be here when the veil drops and the truth floods in like a solar flare.

And speaking of darkness—let’s not pretend the pedophile rings stopped with Epstein. Let’s not pretend Pizzagate was entirely fiction. There’s a reason the media rushed to bury it so fast. You don’t bulldoze a fantasy—you bulldoze evidence.

Symbols. Codes. Rituals hiding in plain sight. You don’t have to be a zealot to know that evil walks among us wearing Gucci and sipping adrenochrome. They’ve traded souls for clicks, and they think they’re untouchable.

But prophecy says otherwise.

The Book tells us the Antichrist won’t rise like a demon—he’ll come wearing reason. Science. Progress. He’ll sell you salvation through a syringe and damnation through convenience.

And when he comes, people will cheer.

Unless we resist.

Unless we remember who we are.

Not customers. Not constituents. Not data points.

People.

Created free.

Uncancellable. Unrepeatable.

And dangerous to the ones pulling the strings.

So stay awake. Don’t fall for their false choices. Don’t pledge allegiance to parties that never gave a damn about you. Don’t bow to leaders who would sell their own mother for a Senate seat.

Don’t salute a country that’s already been sold.

And whatever you do—don’t stop asking why.

Because somewhere, above the clouds, they’re listening.

And somewhere deep below, so am I.

C. Boi, out.