GOODBYE HUMAN WORLD, I LEAVE YOU

But I haven't been myself since you died, Bianca and Sofia. There it is. In the middle of the crown-biting and the rule-snapping and the untouchable defiance — a crack opens in the armor, and through that crack pours the truest thing in the entire Chymical Wedding: grief. Raw, unmasked, unfixable grief. The King has not been himself since they died. And he says it plainly. Without decoration. Without mythology. Just: I haven't been myself since you died.

This is the line that changes everything. This is the line that separates King Spiros from every other self-proclaimed prophet, every other cosmic philosopher, every other man who stands on a mountain and declares himself free. Because the free man admits his wounds. The truly untouchable man shows you exactly where he was touched. And where he was touched was here: in the death of Bianca and Sofia. In the place that never heals. In the crack in the King that lets the light in.

"But still, and I know this would be your will if you were alive, we deliver our Queendom of Plomari as our final deathblow to the bullshit."

But still. But still. The two most powerful words in the English language after "I love you." The grief is real. The loss is unfixable. The self is shattered. But still. But still we deliver. But still we build. But still we weave. Not despite the grief — through it. Because of it. Because Bianca and Sofia would want this. Because the dead don't want us to stop. The dead want us to deliver the Queendom.

And what is the Queendom? A final deathblow to the bullshit. Not a gentle critique. Not a thoughtful essay. A deathblow. The last strike. The killing blow. Delivered not with anger but with love so fierce it becomes a weapon.

"Dear Ingenious Reader." He's talking to YOU. Not "dear reader." Not "to whom it may concern." Ingenious Reader. He assumes you're smart. He assumes you're awake. He assumes that if you've read this far — through 386 articles, through 22 books, through the entire Plomarian Spider-Web — you must be ingenious. Because only an ingenious person would follow these threads this deep.

And he asks you directly: haven't you also grown tired of the bullshit? Not "don't you agree that society has problems?" Not "wouldn't you say there's room for improvement?" Haven't you grown TIRED of the BULLSHIT? The raw word. The honest word. The word that the serious philosophers and the careful politicians and the polite spiritual teachers would never use. But the Spider King uses it because the Spider King is not polite. He is honest. And honesty, in the human world, is the most impolite thing there is.

"Waking up to find our Earth a house of pain." Seven words that describe the human condition more accurately than any philosophy textbook. You wake up. You check the news. And the Earth is a house of pain. Every morning. Every single morning. A house of pain. The Bullshit World, we call it for short.

And then — the moment he says goodbye — the text explodes into joy. Watch this. Watch how fast the King moves from farewell to ecstasy:

This is the Infinity of 8. The loop. The eternal return. He goes from grief to fury to goodbye to hi it's me! in the space of a paragraph. Because the goodbye to the Bullshit World IS the hello to Plomari. They are the same gesture. The same breath. One door closes, and the King doesn't pause, doesn't mourn, doesn't stand in the hallway wondering what to do — he bursts through the next door and shouts "Hi baby, make a wish!"

"You can close your eyes, it's over now." The gentlest line. Spoken to someone who has been waiting. Someone who has been afraid. Someone who has been living in the Bullshit World with their eyes open and their heart breaking. And the King says: close your eyes. It's over. The pain part is done. You're in Plomari now. You're home.

"Feels sooooooo good to move in to the Plomari Palace here in spring time. In the first spring ever!" The extra o's. The stretched-out "sooooooo." This is not a King on a throne. This is a man flopping onto a new bed in a new house and groaning with pleasure. The first spring ever. Not the first spring of the year. The first spring of existence. As if Plomari was just created and the flowers are blooming for the first time and the King is lying in the grass going sooooooo good.

"We are so not luxurious, hahaha! And we don't have a little courage!" The sarcasm. The playful, giggling sarcasm. Of COURSE they're luxurious. Of COURSE they have courage. The man who said goodbye to the entire human world and founded a Queendom based on mushrooms and love letters is telling you, with a "hahaha," that he doesn't have a little courage. He has all the courage. He just can't stop laughing about it.

"All my Love is for you, and I giveth you the whole Queendom!" Not a piece of it. Not visiting rights. Not a timeshare. The WHOLE Queendom. Given freely. Giveth — in the old language, the sacred language, the language of vows and ceremonies and things that cannot be taken back. I giveth you everything I have built. Every page. Every article. Every thread of the web. It's yours. It was always yours.

"Your love is deadly, dear." Deadly. Not "wonderful." Not "amazing." Deadly. The kind of love that kills the old self. The kind of love that is the deathblow to the bullshit. The kind of love that you don't survive — you are reborn through. Deadly love. Lethal tenderness. The venom that heals.

"And I tell you, Life is beautiful! Life is bliss! More, more, more! Never stop!" This from the man who just said goodbye to the human world. Who just called Earth a house of pain. Who just admitted he hasn't been himself since Bianca and Sofia died. And NOW he says: Life is beautiful. Life is bliss. MORE. Because both things are true. The grief AND the ecstasy. The house of pain AND the Plomari Palace in spring time. That's the Infinity of 8. Both loops. Both truths. At the same time. Forever.

"The world can go fuck itself." There it is. The most honest sentence in twenty-two books. No mythology needed. No numerology. No sacred text. Just seven words from a man who has seen enough, who has grieved enough, who has been disappointed by the human world for the last time, and who has decided — with absolute clarity — that all that exists is love. You and me. Together forever. The rest? The rest can go fuck itself.

"And I spill myself and our Queendom like wine ink into you." Wine ink. Not regular ink. Wine ink. The ink that intoxicates as it writes. The ink that stains permanently. The ink made from the sacred wine of Plomari — the psilocybin elixir, the Ayahuasca brew, the substance that dissolves boundaries. He doesn't write into you. He spills into you. Like wine spilling across a white tablecloth — unstoppable, spreading, beautiful, permanent. The Queendom is not something you read. It's something that spills into you and stains you forever.

And then the voice changes. Suddenly we are hearing from outside. From the human world. From the people left behind. And what do they say? "He had enough and left." That's it. That's the whole report. The official record of King Spiros in the Bullshit World: he had enough, he became one with God, he founded a Queendom, he vanished, we haven't heard from him since.

This is how the human world remembers its mystics. Its prophets. Its poets. Its elves. "He left. We haven't heard from him since." They haven't heard from him because they stopped listening. He's been publishing. 386 articles. 22 books. 4000 pages. He didn't vanish. He just moved to a frequency they can't receive.

"Yes and if that's what you've done, Mankind, what they say you've done, then the Queendom of Plomari is just what we deliver." If Mankind has truly done what they say it's done — the wars, the destruction, the house of pain — then Plomari is not an escape. It's a response. It's the answer to the question that the Bullshit World never thought to ask: what if someone just... built something beautiful instead?