THE MONTH THE WATCHERS CAME OUT FROM THE SHADOWS

By ConBoi, The Nigh End Times – January 15th, 2023

Well well well, if it isn’t another shovel of dirt on the grave of plausible deniability. January 2023 rolled in quiet, cold, forgettable, and yet under that frostbitten hush, the gears of the machine groaned into motion once again—and this time, they weren’t even trying to hide it.

Let’s not beat around the ever-burning bush: they made AARO official. You heard me. The All-domain Anomaly Resolution Office. All. Domain. Not just air, not just sea—ALL. That’s their wording, not mine. Why would they call it all-domain unless they were preparing for the kind of things most of y’all would get locked up just for whispering about in the checkout line at a Winn-Dixie?

But I’m getting ahead of myself, like I do.

THE AARO REVEALED: A NEW FACE ON AN OLD LIE

Now, let’s dissect this creature they call AARO. Ostensibly, it was cooked up by the Department of Defense in 2022, under the guise of investigating UAPs—Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena (that’s the new word for UFO, because apparently they think we’ll forget what we’re looking at if they rebrand it every few years like a bad fast food chain). But it wasn’t until January 2023 that they dropped their first report. Dry. Sterile. But behind every one of those sanitized lines is a shriek waiting to be heard.

366 new reports since March of the previous year. That’s what they said. That’s what they admitted. And those are just the ones scrubbed clean enough for public consumption. Imagine the rest. Out of those, 163 were characterized as “balloon or balloon-like entities.” HA. That’s the oldest play in the game, my friends. When they can’t explain it, they call it a weather balloon. When they’re feeling cheeky, they call it swamp gas. And now? Just “balloon-like.”

We’re supposed to believe these trained observers—military pilots, radar technicians, satellite analysts—can’t tell a balloon from a Tic-Tac-sized light bending the laws of physics like a back-alley magician? Get outta here.

And what about the 171 reports that remain uncharacterized? Hmm? Just sitting there in the report like a silent scream. They won’t say unidentified, because even that’s too close to the truth. But they can’t lie and say they figured it out either. So they leave it in limbo. Bureaucratic purgatory.

Let me tell you something—when they say “uncharacterized,” they mean “makes no earthly sense.” And if it makes no earthly sense, then maybe, just maybe, it’s not from Earth.

SOMETHING IS COMING, AND THEY KNOW IT

You can feel it. I don’t know how else to put it. I’ve been talking to folks online, at truck stops, at swap meets—people feel it in their bones. The sky’s different. The air’s different. Even the animals have changed their behaviors. It’s not just the sightings. It’s the silence between them.

Back in the day, we had cattle mutilations, crop circles, abductions. But that was the warm-up band. Now we’re in the interlude before the headliner. You ever been to a show where the crowd gets quiet—not because they’re bored, but because they know the real act’s about to take the stage? That’s where we’re at.

The government is scared. That’s why they’ve made AARO. Not to investigate, but to control the narrative. You give people a fake official body, give them a few sanitized reports, and they think someone’s “on it.” But the real players? They’re not in that room. They’re not in any room we can walk into. They’re watching from above—and maybe from below.

And I’ll tell you another thing, for free: This AARO outfit reports to the Secretary of Defense and the Director of National Intelligence. That’s not standard. That’s wartime structure. You don’t report to the janitor when your house is on fire—you go straight to the chief.

But a fire’s only half the story. The other half? Flood.

Remember the Genesis story? Or how about the Hopi Prophecies? Or the Dogon tribes who’ve known about Sirius B before we had telescopes that could spot it? They’ve all said the same thing in different tongues—something comes from above. Something returns. Cycles don’t just repeat. They spiral.

And we’re about to round the bend into the deep.

WE BEEN HERE BEFORE—BUT NEVER LIKE THIS

I want you to think back to the CIA documents of the ‘50s. Hell, think about Roswell. 1947. And every time someone saw a saucer or got a scoop, the story disappeared faster than a Kennedy’s mistress. The same old operation: dismiss, discredit, disappear.

Project Blue Book? That was a damn PR campaign. Operation Mockingbird? That was how they made sure you didn’t ask questions. MKUltra? That’s how they learned how to make you forget the answers even if you did.

And now here we are, in a post-Tic Tac, post-AARO world, and they’re hoping you’ll go back to Netflix and DoorDash and forget that just a few short months ago, they looked into a camera and admitted the sky ain’t empty.

They want you docile, confused, clicking, swiping, arguing about pronouns and ignoring the pulse that’s been thumping in your chest since January. That dread? That’s not paranoia. That’s preparation.

See, some of us were born to know. Some of us remember. Not because we read it in a book, but because it’s in our blood. Our ancestors saw the watchers descend in the hills of Peru, in the deserts of New Mexico, in the skies above Tunguska. This isn’t new. This is the return.

AND NOW A WORD ABOUT THE DAMN BIRDS

Look. I tried to hold back. I really did. But I can’t end this dispatch without talking about it. The birds.

You’ve heard it by now. “Birds aren’t real.” Started as a satire, they say. A joke. A lark. A bit of internet fun. And they got this fella, Peter McIndoe, front and center of it all—young, shaggy, that charming lost-boy act, just silly enough to keep you from asking too many questions.

But let me tell you what happened to Peter: He got bought out. That’s right. Somewhere along the way, the satire caught fire. It was too close to the truth. Too many people started nodding along, started noticing the birds don’t fly like they used to, that they recharge on power lines, that some of them glitch in midair like bad CGI.

So what do they do? They invite young Peter behind the curtain. Offer him a “book deal.” Maybe a Ted Talk. Give him a taste of the machine oil. And suddenly, what was almost a movement became just another t-shirt brand. Soft. Toothless. Harmless.

You don’t believe me? Look into DARPA’s ornithopter programs. Look at the way pigeons showed up in Iraq. Look at the classified programs from the 1970s where they literally fitted birds with cameras and chemical sensors.

Hell, look at the damn seagulls in San Diego. They don’t even flinch at humans anymore. Know why? Because they ain’t watching us. They’re watching for someone else. And I don’t mean the feds. I mean the real watchers.

THE FINAL WORD… FOR NOW

January 2023 was the opening shot. The first clang of the bell before the match begins. The AARO was not built for exploration—it was built for containment. Containment of knowledge, of disclosure, of the kind of truth that breaks your teeth when you try to swallow it.

Something is coming. Or maybe it’s already here, and we’re just not smart enough—or brave enough—to see it clearly. The lights in the sky are only the beginning. They always were. The governments of the world are just middle management. The birds are surveillance drones. The stars have eyes.

Keep watching. Keep asking. Keep writing in the margins.

And for God’s sake, don’t trust a bird that doesn’t blink.

ConBoi, out.