I reject the logic of Substack's recommendation system. It breeds social pressure, distracts us with numbers, and pushes us further into the algorithmic machine. I keep “official recommendations” supported by Substack rare.
This page is a shrine. Praise, no trade.
No one listed here owes me, and I owe the nothing in return.
I carve new names into the stone from time to time.
Hailstorm of Words
- writes “”. His sentences carry a scarred rhythm. Though young, his lines bear the weight of pain. I hope I live long enough to read his opus magnum.
“the reaping of your flesh is this world taking its course.” - writes “”. His words are blood and evil. One of the rare authentic voices. If you read closely, you’ll feel his despair. Real.
“You are my vassal of ravenous hunger. You will allow me to gorge myself on the anguish you bring.”
Witnesses of War and Pain
- writes “”. He rejects the algorithm, which keeps him hidden from the masses' sight. He writes about wartime as he walked the battlefields himself.
“Greek’s got a point. If we’re gonna get blown up, I don’t want to die in the dark.” - writes “Story in a Shadow”. Their stories witness what others want to forget. They are deeply unsettling and devastating. The places described should not exist, but they did—and still do, in other forms. I was once fortunate enough to read an original in the author's mother tongue; there, the darkness is even more complete.
”What is a human life worth in hell, when you’re the one holding the pencil?”
Kaos Vizion
- writes “Bloodmagick”. I believe she is a Völva, a burning star that chose to be mortal for a while. Her writing is ritual, raw, alive with force. She is the only person who can say “It feels like Kimchi in my pussy,” and I still listen (and wonder, how this feels). Every work of hers is made of Kaos.
"Give all thy blood to the High Leviathan And sing softly as We devour you whole.” - writes “Chrome Hearse Express”. When I first read his work, I stumbled in the dark. His style breaks all rules without warning. I thought it should be ritual, but his work is far more chaotic. I admire the power of his words—and know I will never copy it.
”IN ALL DIRECTIONS.((everpresent)) […] WEEPING STARS WILL DROWN IN NEON BLOOD”