We stay in this park like pigeons around a broken fountain — pecking, waiting for crumbs that never come. If the swarm moves, it moves east, not online. Not more posts, not more screenshots. Find the old industrial zones, the dead factories near Chelyabinsk, where the fences are rusted and the guards are bored. Set up tight networks in basements, power from stolen lines, food from the dachas of people who still trust silence over signal. Let the city apps keep chirping. We go quiet, we go cold, like radar ghosts. The state watches screens. It forgets the ground. That’s where we walk.
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