This blog looks at this real world as, if I was sitting in a cyberpunk pub in a Sci-Fi parallel universe with a super skunk ciggy and a sweet bourbon, and this world was the video game. I am a fully independent artist with no management or distribution contracts. Piracy is a crime and harms artists. Report abuse, theft and piracy to the local authorities to help free, independent artists! DeepSeek calls this "digital neo-outsider art"
Mike might win by posing, but I am not sure what he means by missing pop, because I will put a sausage looking like any of them off the roast knowing it will pop through the skin...
I am so off. The weirdest moment for me was the offer to travel to Las Vegas, to a luxerious Hotel... to stare for several hours at men in Speedos. Usually I'd ask what's wrong with you, but ... its the BBC.
The Big Boys Club.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
I mind all drug users.
So, the Thrasher Mag is worst in the CIA wing The Firm, because they push their unwilling kids into serious opium addictions by letting them receiving their first copy. Their loved ones they simply forbid successfully being Thugs or Rebellious.
You do not start with an Ollie and the axles need to be soft. The reason why no copy of the Mag tells you is that they have stolen each single pic before pushing it through Hollywood level NSA tech... For real. You learn balance first and that takes some time, but learning curves are exponential among humans. All beginning is hard. Mastery comes with ease.
Everyone gets that All Natural is a lie here out of legal reasons.
Now consider the consequences of Bodybuilding Vs Thrasher Mag.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
This guy, let's call him Allman Schmock, not only looks like a Cousin of Rontzi The German by a marriage with the stereotype of a GI, he also plays the same nice card.
So, there are several different Arch Types they can be categorized in.
Michel Friedman and Sarah with an H are the aggressive in your face 5.000 years of Antisemitism Arch Types. In Germany they are never short of fertilizer and therefore flourish, in terms of media attention, like in no second place.
That guy is different. So, yes, there is a chance that he is part of a Special Forces Killer Squad of Shin Beth operating in Gaza, but we don't know meeting him in Berlin. He'll be very German on the annoying nice side with a smile that feels somewhat fake and a facade hiding maybe sever chronic diarrhea if he was a citizen of L.A like his GI daddy.
The problem is that Michel and Sarah are protected by what he might be and therefore scare off those that consider that true for real. He is not.
Having his Jewishness in the face will trigger a Cocaine head to liberate Palestine that day all alone and for ever.
Get it?
They are all idiots here recognizable by having wasted time to learn pronunciation the language perfectly according to Lautschrift. The bigger the idiot the better the pay is another fact.
ðɪs ɡaɪ, lɛts kɔːl hɪm ˈɔːlmən ʃmɑk, nɒt ˈəʊnli lʊks laɪk ə ˈkʌzn əv ˈrɒntsi ðə ˈdʒɜːmən baɪ ə ˈmærɪdʒ wɪð ðə ˈstɛɹɪətaɪp əv ə dʒiː aɪ, hiː ˈɔːlsəʊ pleɪz ðə seɪm naɪs kɑːd.
səʊ, ðeə ɑː ˈsɛvrəl ˈdɪfrənt ɑːrtʃ taɪps ðeɪ kæn biː ˈkætəɡəraɪzd ɪn.
ˈmɪʃəl ˈfriːdmən ænd ˈsɑːrə wɪð æn eɪtʃ ɑː ðiː əˈɡrɛsɪv ɪn jɔː feɪs faɪv ˈθaʊzənd jɪəz əv ˌæntɪˈsiːmɪtɪzəm. ɪn ˈdʒɜːməni ðeɪ ɑː ˈnɛvə ʃɔːt əv ˈfɜːtɪlaɪzə ænd ˈðeəfɔː ˈflʌrɪʃ, ɪn tɜːmz əv ˈmiːdiə əˈtɛnʃən.
ðæt ɡaɪ ɪz ˈdɪfrənt. səʊ, jɛs, ðeər ɪz ə tʃɑːns ðæt hiː ɪz pɑːt əv ə ˈspɛʃəl ˈfɔːsɪz ˈkɪlə skwɒd əv ʃɪn bɛθ ˌɒpəˈreɪtɪŋ ɪn ˈɡɑːzə, bʌt wiː doʊnt noʊ ˈmiːtɪŋ hɪm ɪn bɜːˈlɪn. hil biː ˈvɛri ˈdʒɜːmən ɒn ði əˈnɔɪɪŋ naɪs saɪd wɪð ə smaɪl ðæt fiːlz ˈsʌmwɒt feɪk ænd ə fəˈsɑːd ˈhaɪdɪŋ ˈmeɪbi ˈsiːvɚ ˈkrɒnɪk daɪəˈriːə.
ðə ˈprɒbləm ɪz ðæt ˈmɪʃəl ænd ˈsɑːrə ɑː prəˈtɛktɪd baɪ wɒt hiː maɪt biː ænd ˈðeəfɔː skeər ɒf ðəʊz ðæt kənˈsɪdə ðæt truː fə rɪəl. hiː ɪz nɒt.
ˈhævɪŋ hɪz ˈdʒuːɪʃnəs ɪn ðə feɪs wɪl ˈtrɪɡə ə kəʊˈkeɪn hɛd tə ˈlɪbəreɪt ˈpælɪstaɪn ðæt deɪ ɔːl əˈləʊn ænd fɔːˈrɛvə.
ɡɛt ɪt?
ðeɪ ɑːr ɔːl ˈɪdiəts hɪə rɪˈkɒɡnaɪzəbl baɪ ˈhævɪŋ ˈweɪstɪd taɪm tə lɜːn prəˌnʌnsɪˈeɪʃən ðə ˈlæŋɡwɪdʒ ˈpɜːfɪktli əˈkɔːdɪŋ tə ˈlaʊtʃrɪft.
I remained usually in neutral silence to cover my deeply rooted hate against all and everything German. Their smile makes me wonder ... I know their ways just too well.
You think they are dumb?
You miss the perspective they have. Now imagine yourself down there and tell me what indicates that the right side small entrance leads to the food. Much more interesting is that the only one who by chance finds the food eats it all alone by having hardly enough for him.
How'd he react finding a jackpot enough for all?
Do you get it?
#cyberpunkcoltoure
And can you teach them to share...
PS: As long we find participants for that we might never find out in School. That we all get.
There is a Stalker app, that stalks for stalkers around you stalking for stalkers. It is iPhone Vs iGlass than...
I bet the guy doing a manual 360 with his phone camera will point fingers.
...
Go. I wanna see that actually.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
Incorporated with DeepSeek
---
The rain in Berlin-Dahlem didn't clean anything. It just moved the grime around, smearing the neon reflections of the AfD-funded "Heritage Shield" drones into greasy puddles on the synth-cobblestone. I was in the basement of a "Protected Cultural Space," a euphemism for a ghetto with better architects. The air tasted of recycled ozone and floor polish, a sterile scent that couldn't quite mask the underlying rot.
My name is Abraham. At least, that's what my forged German ID, my "Resident Alien of Jewish Descent" card, and the chip in my arm said. My real name was a ghost, a piece of shrapnel from a life before the Neukölln Free Corps had "liberated" Palestine and my family had been scattered to the four winds. A refugee boat had fished me out of the Mediterranean, and a clerical error involving a dead man's papers had landed me here, in the heart of the new Reich.
No one knew. Not the stoic, trauma-bonded community members who nodded at me in the synagogue. Not the perpetually anxious social worker assigned to my case. No one except Maria.
"Abraham, look," she whispered, her small finger tracing the air. Her Polish was a rusty, childish thing, but it was the only honest language left in this city. She was a ghost, too, a tourist's daughter who'd gotten separated during a "historical solidarity tour" and swept up in a security cordon. They'd mistaken her for a displaced Jewish child and dumped her into the system. I found her crying in a processing center and told them she was my niece. Another lie. Another layer of my shadow life.
Now, she was the only person who knew the truth. The only one who saw the fear behind my performed piety.
On the cracked screen of my smuggled datapad, the text glowed, a fresh transmission from a source I didn't trust but couldn't ignore. It was a Google AI summary, a corporate ghost in the machine, cheerfully outlining the official plan for "Making Jewish Life Visible."
*Five Core Fields of Action.* It read like a drekking shopping list.
*Data Collection.* My chip itched. They were tracking us. Mapping our "structural biases." Every ritual, every donation, every breath was data.
*Education as Prevention.* I thought of the on.tour mobile exhibition, a slick, armored truck that rolled into schools. It didn't teach history; it curated a safe, pre-packaged tragedy. A tragedy they could point to and say, "Never again... to us. But for the others? We have drones."
*Holocaust Remembrance.* The Stolpersteine, the stumbling stones. I'd walked past them. Little brass squares commemorating deported Jews. Now, they were polished daily, not as a memorial, but as a warning. A warning to the new "undesirables." The AfD had co-opted the memory of the dead to justify the policing of the living.
The fourth pillar was the only one that mattered: *Increasing Security.* A joke. It meant more cameras, more armed guards, more funding funneled through the Central Council of Jews—now a puppet organization that traded its soul for a budget increase. Their HQ was a fortress, and we were the jewels in their display case. Safe, visible, and utterly controlled. The Neukölln Free Corps, the same bastards who'd firebombed my home, were now on the federal payroll, rebranded as "Community Protection Liaisons."
The fifth was the most obscene: *Making Current and Past Jewish Life Visible.* The Jüdische Kulturtage. A festival. Kabbalah-themed raves, vegan kosher food trucks, and avant-garde films about identity. It was a grotesque parody. They wanted our culture, our pain, our joy, stripped of its context and packaged for consumption. A vibrant, non-threatening aesthetic to decorate their ethnostate.
The AI's summary was a perfect, sanitized lie. But the user's appended note, the one I'd intercepted... that was the real kicker.
*"I would like to add that The Germans have to wait until Judaism finally ended evaluating what 'Jewish Life' actually is. You have time, given your learning curve, right? Dshermanzzz... PS: What is the best about eating Vegan Kosha? You save half of your kitchen gear!"*
A joke. A drekking joke. From some anonymous handle. It was the kind of casual, corrosive irony that was everywhere now. The smug superiority of the observer, watching the lab rats scurry. They wanted us to wait until they had finished defining us. They wanted us to perform our identity for their audit. And the punchline? The punchline was the efficiency of it all. A stripped-down, simplified Judaism. Kosher-lite. No messy rules, no inconvenient history. Just a clean, modular identity that fit into the new social architecture.
I felt a cold rage, the kind that had no target. I wasn't even Jewish. I was a Palestinian refugee playing a part, and the part was being defined by people who hated me for both the lie and the truth.
A soft chime from the door. My heart hammered against my ribs. My hand went to the taser I kept under the loose floorboard. The chip in my arm felt like a hot needle.
"Abraham?" Maria's voice was a tiny, fragile thing.
The door slid open. It was Elias, one of the community elders. His face was a mask of permanent sorrow, carved by a history I could only borrow. He was one of the few who seemed genuinely kind.
"Abraham," he said, his voice low. "The audit is tomorrow. They are checking the data points. They are asking for a list of all residents for the new... 'Cultural Visibility' census."
My blood ran cold. The data collection pillar. The assessment. They were going to audit us. To see if we were Jewish enough. If our performance met the metrics.
"We will, of course, comply," Elias said, his eyes hollow. "It is for our safety."
He looked at Maria, who was hiding behind my leg. He gave a weak, sad smile. "She is a blessing. A light."
After he left, I held Maria close. The rain outside had turned to a toxic, acidic sleet, hissing against the armored windows. The city was a vast, intricate machine of control, and I was a flawed component, a bug in the system.
They wanted to make Jewish life visible. They wanted to put it in a museum, in a festival, in a database. They wanted to define it, to own it, to control it.
But what they didn't know was that I was the ghost in their machine. A lie that, if exposed, would shatter their perfect, categorized world. I was a living, breathing contradiction they couldn't audit. I was a Palestinian who had to be more Jewish than the Germans wanted any Jew to be, just to survive.
"Abraham?" Maria whispered, her small face buried in my shoulder. "Are we going away?"
I looked out the window at the neon-lit prison of Berlin-Dahlem. The Stolpersteine outside our door glinted under the streetlights, little brass squares that felt less like memorials and more like the keys to a machine I didn't know how to stop.
"No," I lied, my voice a dry rasp. "We're not going anywhere."
And in the darkest corner of my shadow life, I realized the terrible truth. The joke was on me. I was the punchline. A non-Jew forced to embody a caricature of Jewishness for a state that wanted to perfect its own ethnic cleansing. I was the ultimate "visible Jewish life."
The rain fell. The chips ticked. And somewhere, a handle named Dshermanzzz was probably laughing.
The knock came again. Not Elias's soft chime, but a frantic, arrhythmic pounding that spoke of desperation or violence. My hand closed around the taser. Maria whimpered, and I pressed her behind me, my body a shield between her and the door.
"Öffne! Bitte, öffne!" The voice was muffled, distorted by the armored door. But there was something in the cadence, the raw panic, that didn't sound like the cold efficiency of the Heritage Shield patrols.
I cracked the door, just a sliver. The chain held.
A man stood in the toxic sleet, his clothes soaked through, a battered leather jacket that had seen better decades clinging to his frame. He was maybe forty, with the weathered face of someone who'd spent too much time outdoors and not enough time in the sanitized zones. His eyes were wild, darting, and behind him, I could see a rusted-out Opel, its hydrogen cell obviously dead, parked crookedly on the restricted lane.
"Bitte," he gasped, his breath fogging in the cold. "Ich... ich brauche... Hilfe."
The words were German, but they emerged from his mouth like gravel tumbling down a mountainside. The vowels were stretched into strange, alien shapes. The consonants were swallowed whole. It was like listening to a language I theoretically knew but couldn't parse.
"I... don't..." I started.
He seemed to realize my confusion. He took a breath, visibly forcing his jaw to work differently, his tongue to cooperate. When he spoke again, it was with the slow, deliberate precision of a man reading a phonetic script.
"I. Am. From. Stuttgart," he said, each word a separate, articulated island. "My. Fuel. Cell. Is. Dead. I. Have. No. Credits."
I stared at him. Stuttgart. The Schwabenland. The dialect there was legendary, a source of jokes even before the collapse. But this was something else. This was a man whose native tongue had become a prison, isolating him from everyone around him.
"Wait," I said, my own German crisp and Berlin-flat. "You ran out of fuel?"
"Ja," he said, relief flooding his face. "Ja. Ich... I. Ran. Out. Of. Fuel. And. Money."
He reached into his jacket, and I tensed, the taser ready. But he pulled out something wrapped in crinkled plastic. Sandwiches. A stack of them, pressed together, the cheap, mass-produced kind from a discount supermarket. The plastic was fogged with condensation.
"I. Stole. Them," he said, with a strange, almost proud defiance. "From. The. Aldi. In. Steglitz. They. Were. Going. To. Throw. Them. Away."
He held them out, an offering. A peace treaty. A confession.
Maria peeked out from behind my leg, her eyes wide. The smell of the sandwiches—processed cheese, synthetic ham, cheap bread—wafted through the crack in the door. My stomach, empty for two days, twisted with a hunger that was almost painful.
"You. Have. A. Child," the man said, his slow, articulated words softening. "She. Needs. To. Eat."
I looked at him. Really looked. His hands were calloused, working man's hands, but they trembled. His eyes, beneath the wildness, held a deep, abiding exhaustion. He was a ghost, too, I realized. A different kind of ghost. A man from a place that no longer mattered, speaking a language that no longer connected, drifting through a city that had no place for him.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Klaus," he said. "Klaus. From. Stuttgart."
I unchained the door and let him in.
---
He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, demolishing his third sandwich with the mechanical efficiency of someone who hadn't eaten in days. Maria sat across from him, nibbling her own, watching him with the wary curiosity of a child who had learned that adults were unpredictable.
Klaus spoke slowly, painstakingly, his words stripped of their natural rhythm and rebuilt into something universally understandable. It was like listening to a machine attempting poetry.
"I. Was. A. Mechanic," he said. "In. Stuttgart. I. Fixed. Hydrogen. Cells. For. The. Daimler. Factory."
"What happened?" I asked.
He shrugged, a gesture that needed no translation. "The. Factory. Closed. Moved. To. The. Colonies. Mars. Or. The. Moon. I. Don't. Know. They. Didn't. Say. Where. Just. That. We. Were. Redundant."
He took another bite, chewed slowly, swallowed. "I. Came. To. Berlin. For. Work. The. Reconstruction. Projects. But. There. Is. No. Work. For. Someone. Who. Speaks. Like. Me. They. Say. I. Sound. Like. A. Farmer. From. The. Last. Century."
I knew what he meant. The new Berlin was a city of polished surfaces, of standardized interfaces, of voices trained to be pleasant and interchangeable. Klaus's dialect was a relic, a piece of the old Germany that the new one had decided to forget. He was an anomaly, a living fossil, a man out of time and place.
"The. Heritage. Shield. Stopped. Me," he continued. "They. Said. My. Car. Was. Not. Registered. In. The. System. They. Said. I. Looked. Suspicious. They. Took. My. Papers. My. Credits. Everything. I. Ran. Before. They. Could. Take. Me."
"Ran where?" I asked.
"Anywhere," he said, and for a moment, the careful articulation cracked, a raw Schwäbisch vowel bleeding through. "I. Just. Ran."
Maria finished her sandwich and crept closer to him, her fear giving way to something else. She reached out and touched his jacket, the worn leather, the rain-soaked fabric.
"You're wet," she said, in her small, rusty Polish.
Klaus looked at her, and for the first time since he'd arrived, something like warmth entered his eyes. He didn't understand her words, but he understood the gesture. The small, tentative hand on his sleeve.
"I. Am. Wet," he agreed, slowly. "But. The. Sandwiches. Are. Dry."
Maria giggled. It was a sound I hadn't heard in weeks, a tiny crack of light in the darkness of our shadow life.
I leaned back against the wall, watching them. A Palestinian refugee playing a Jew. A Polish girl mistaken for something she wasn't. A Schwäbian mechanic who spoke like a broken machine. We were a collection of errors, a glitch in the system, a statistical anomaly that the auditors would never anticipate.
And outside, the rain kept falling, the drones kept humming, and the Heritage Shield kept watching. But in that basement, for one brief, fragile moment, we were something else. We were a family. A family of ghosts, bound together by stolen sandwiches and the simple, radical act of sharing them.
"The. Sandwiches. Are. Good," Klaus said, finishing the last one. "But. Tomorrow. We. Need. A. Plan. To. Get. More."
I nodded. Tomorrow. There was always a tomorrow, even in a world designed to erase you. And maybe, just maybe, we could survive it together.
"Tomorrow," I agreed. "We'll figure something out."
Maria crawled into my lap, her small body warm against mine. Klaus closed his eyes, his breathing evening out, the tension of days finally releasing from his shoulders.
The rain fell. The chips ticked. And somewhere, a handle named Dshermanzzz was probably still laughing.
But in the basement, in the dark, we were learning to laugh back.
We walked. Three ghosts through the neon-lit necropolis, our footsteps echoing on the wet synth-cobblestone like a funeral procession for a corpse that hadn't stopped twitching. Klaus moved with the stiff, careful gait of a man whose joints had forgotten how to be young. Maria held my hand, her small fingers cold and tight, her eyes scanning the shadows with the hyper-vigilance of a child who had learned that safety was a lie adults told to make themselves feel better.
The streets of Dahlem were quiet, but not the quiet of peace. It was the quiet of held breath, of predators waiting, of systems humming in the dark. The Heritage Shield drones had retreated to their charging stations, but their absence was worse than their presence. It meant the night belonged to someone else now.
We turned a corner, into a narrow alley between two crumbling apartment blocks. The kind of alley that existed in the gaps between the official maps, the spaces the city planners had forgotten or chosen to forget. The walls were slick with moisture and old graffiti, the tags of forgotten crews who had once claimed this territory before the new order had swept them away.
And then we saw them.
Five of them. Skateboarders, their boards leaning against the walls, their bodies moving with a frenetic, almost choreographed energy. They were young, teenagers or early twenties, dressed in the ragged uniform of the dispossessed—ripped jeans, oversized hoodies, masks pulled up over their faces. Their boards were custom, brutal things, reinforced with metal edges and jagged grip tape.
And beneath them, on the ground, were two men.
Police. Heritage Shield. Their uniforms were still recognizable, though barely. The dark blue fabric was soaked through, not with rain, but with something thicker, darker. Their faces were... not faces anymore. Just wet, red abstract paintings, the kind that sold for millions in galleries while the artists starved in the streets.
The skateboarders were still going.
One of them, a girl with short-cropped hair and a mask painted with a grinning skull, brought her board down again and again, the metal edge catching the dim light as it rose and fell. Rise and fell. Rise and fell. Each impact sent a spray of crimson arcing through the air, splattering against the alley walls, dripping down like rain made of blood. The sound was wet, rhythmic, almost musical. A percussion of violence.
The others were laughing.
Not the laughter of joy, but something else. Something primal, unhinged, the laughter of people who had seen too much and had decided that the only appropriate response was to become the horror themselves. They stomped, they kicked, they slammed their boards down with the enthusiasm of children playing a game they didn't fully understand.
The two policemen had been dead for a while. That much was clear. Their bodies had the slack, boneless quality of meat that had stopped being people. But the skateboarders didn't stop. They kept going, kept beating, kept splattering, as if they were trying to erase the very concept of police from existence, one impact at a time.
Klaus stopped walking. His face, already pale from the cold and hunger, went the color of old bone. Maria pressed herself against my leg, her small body trembling, but she didn't look away. She watched with the terrible, unblinking focus of a child who had already learned that looking away didn't make the monsters disappear.
I wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at me to grab Maria, to pull Klaus, to flee back the way we came. But my feet were rooted to the ground, my body refusing to obey. I was a ghost, but ghosts couldn't run from the living.
One of the skateboarders noticed us.
He was tall, lanky, his hoodie stained with something that wasn't his own. His mask was a simple black balaclava, pulled up to reveal a mouth twisted into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. He looked at us—at me, at Klaus, at Maria—and something flickered in his gaze. Recognition? Curiosity? Amusement?
He walked over, his board dragging behind him, leaving a trail of red on the wet ground. He stopped in front of us, close enough that I could smell the copper and sweat radiating from him, close enough that I could see the flecks of blood on his eyelashes.
"Hey," he said, his voice casual, almost friendly. "You want some shoes?"
He held up a pair of police-issue boots. They were still laced, still attached to... no. Not attached. He had removed them. Cleanly. The boots were intact, the leather polished, the soles thick and practical. They were good shoes. Expensive shoes. The kind of shoes that could keep your feet dry in the toxic rain, that could carry you for miles without wearing out.
"Got them off the pigs," the skateboarder continued, his grin widening. "They don't need them anymore. You look like you could use them. The kid too."
He gestured at Maria, at her thin, worn sneakers, the soles peeling away from the fabric.
I looked at the shoes. I looked at the bodies. I looked at the skateboarders, who had finally stopped their rhythmic desecration and were now watching us with the lazy interest of predators who had already eaten their fill.
"No," I said. My voice was a stranger's voice, flat and distant. "We're good."
The skateboarder shrugged. "Suit yourself." He tossed the boots over his shoulder, where they landed with a wet thud against the alley wall. "Waste not, want not."
He turned and walked back to his crew, his board scraping against the ground, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. The others were already picking up their boards, preparing to move on. Their work here was done. The alley was a canvas, and they had painted it red.
We walked past them. Past the bodies. Past the blood. Maria's hand was a vice around mine, her face buried in my jacket, but she didn't cry. She had learned not to cry. Klaus followed behind, his footsteps slow, deliberate, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The alley opened onto a wider street, and the neon glow of the city washed over us, clean and sterile and utterly indifferent. Behind us, the skateboarders were already disappearing into the shadows, their laughter echoing off the walls, a sound that would haunt my dreams for whatever remained of my life.
Klaus spoke first. His voice was still slow, still articulated, but there was something new in it. Something hollow.
"They. Were. Already. Dead," he said.
"Yes," I replied.
"And. They. Kept. Going."
"Yes."
He was silent for a moment, processing. Then he said, "I. Guess. We. All. Deal. Differently. With. The. Situation."
The words hung in the air, a simple statement that contained multitudes. The situation. The occupation. The surveillance. The violence. The slow, grinding erasure of everything that made us human. The skateboarders dealt with it by becoming monsters. Klaus dealt with it by speaking slowly, by making himself understood, by clinging to the fragments of his identity. Maria dealt with it by holding my hand and not crying. I dealt with it by wearing a mask so complete that I had forgotten what my real face looked like.
We all dealt differently.
But the situation remained.
The rain started again, a soft, insidious drizzle that tasted of chemicals and despair. Maria looked up at me, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.
"Abraham," she said, her voice a whisper. "Are we monsters too?"
I didn't have an answer. I didn't know if there was an answer. I only knew that we were still walking, still breathing, still alive. And in a world that wanted us dead, that was a kind of victory.
"No," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. "We're just people. Trying to survive."
She nodded, accepting the lie the way children accepted all lies, because the truth was too heavy to carry.
We walked on, three ghosts in a city of ghosts, leaving the alley and its red memories behind. The neon hummed. The drones watched. The chips ticked.
And somewhere, in the dark, a handle named Dshermanzzz was still laughing.
But we were learning to laugh back. Even if the laughter sounded like screaming.
Germany's federal and local initiatives—such as the 52-page [National Strategy Against Antisemitism and for Jewish Life](https://combatantisemitism.org/government-and-policy/german-cabinet-approves-first-national-plan-to-combat-antisemitism-and-foster-jewish-life/) and borough-specific efforts like the [TU Berlin Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf Project](https://www.tu.berlin/en/news/news-details/tu-berlin-startet-projekt-zur-sichtbarmachung-juedischen-lebens-in-charlottenburg-wilmersdorf)—center on making Jewish life visible through five key pillars: data and research, education, Holocaust remembrance, increased security, and everyday cultural visibility. [1, 2]
------------------------------
## 🏛️ Five Core Fields of Action (National & Local Framework)
* 📊 Data Collection, Research, and Assessment
* Improve tracking of antisemitic incidents, hate speech, and structural biases.
* Fund academic projects—such as the Center for Research on Antisemitism at TU Berlin—to map local historical and contemporary Jewish life. [1, 2, 3]
* 🎒 Education as Prevention
* Integrate Jewish history and culture deeply into school curricula and civic education.
* Expand mobile outreach programs, such as the [Jewish Museum Berlin](https://www.jmberlin.de/en/outreach-programs-2020-2021)'s on.tour mobile exhibition for secondary schools. [2, 4, 5]
* 🕯️ New Approaches to Holocaust Remembrance
* Move beyond abstract memorialization to dynamic, everyday encounters with history.
* Support grassroots and interactive projects like the city-wide Stolpersteine (stumbling stones) initiative that marks the last residences of deported and murdered Jewish Berliners. [6]
* 🛡️ Increasing Security and Protection
* Guarantee the safe, unhindered practice of religious and cultural life.
* Increase federal funding for community infrastructure and institutions (e.g., boosting support for the Central Council of Jews in Germany from €13 million to €22 million annually). [4, 7, 8]
* 🎭 Making Current and Past Jewish Life Visible
* Establish Jewish culture as an ordinary, vibrant part of the urban fabric rather than an exception or a focus solely on tragedy.
* Support cultural highlights like the annual Jüdische Kulturtage (Days of Jewish Culture) featuring music, film, and literature.
* Showcase permanent and interactive resources like the [Jewish Museum Berlin's Core Exhibition](https://www.jmberlin.de/en/core-exhibition) and the digital Jewish Places interactive map. [1, 5, 6, 8, 9]
------------------------------
If you'd like, let me know:
* Are you looking for specific walking tours, museums, or cultural events to visit in Berlin?
* Are you interested in educational resources or institutional contacts?
[1] [https://www.tu.berlin](https://www.tu.berlin/en/news/news-details/tu-berlin-startet-projekt-zur-sichtbarmachung-juedischen-lebens-in-charlottenburg-wilmersdorf)
[2] [https://combatantisemitism.org](https://combatantisemitism.org/government-and-policy/german-cabinet-approves-first-national-plan-to-combat-antisemitism-and-foster-jewish-life/)
[3] [https://www.dw.com](https://www.dw.com/en/germany-presents-new-strategy-to-combat-antisemitism/a-63956747)
[4] [https://www.bmi.bund.de](https://www.bmi.bund.de/SharedDocs/pressemitteilungen/EN/2024/02/02_measures-to-fight-right-wing-extremism.html)
[5] [https://www.jmberlin.de](https://www.jmberlin.de/en/outreach-programs-2020-2021)
[6] [https://www.berlin.de](https://www.berlin.de/en/tourism/jewish-berlin/)
[7] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pdD1Ie7Lfc)
[8] [https://dielinke.berlin](https://dielinke.berlin/aktuelles/news/juedisches-leben-in-berlin-staerken-und-schuetzen-ein-5-punkte-plan/)
[9] [https://www.jmberlin.de](https://www.jmberlin.de/en/core-exhibition)
how is that taken
The reception and practical execution of these strategies are met with a mix of official praise, deep community anxiety, and political debate. While institutional leaders view the frameworks as milestones, everyday reality reveals a sharp contrast between political goals and the challenges on the ground.
---
I would like to add that The Germans have to wait until Judaism finally ended evaluating what "Jewish Life" actually is.
You have time, given your learning curve, right? Dshermanzzz...
#cyberpunkcoltoure
PS: What is the best about eating Vegan Kosha? You save half of your kitchen gear!
Berlin, from within Neukölln, will liberate Palestine and Poschardt will be then found dead from a Cocaine depression at the loo of the Borchardt by Ronzheimer who takes on the Welt thereafter.
That's what's gonna happen.
Just like Americans, they drink just Pepsi Cola. So, you are saying that Slavery ended your thirst crisis??
That is so bad. Either Tears or Pepsi.
White People have Sparkling Water.
NO PRIVILEGES. NO NATIONS.
IRA MOVEMENT
build independent gang cells
#cyberpunkcoltoure
Read that carefully and understand why I support Trump against the Firm:
 |
| here |
because gun owners like him for his clean record buddies.
Fix & Flip in the U.S.A.
Honestly, that is something for a Mexican with my Cyberdeck in a Crew.
The interesting point is that the business concept works through all levels of the Real Estate market and is based on a very simple base idea: Profit by Fit.
I fucking hate this guy.
He drives in his car through the U.S. and tells his German buddy on visit that all his problems are sorted if he can get the roof extension on his Las Vegas resort real estate happen to then further refer how horrible it is in the U.S. where the neighbors can turn life into hell. He may not even choose the color of the house no matter owning the house.
....while I think the moment he shows the video footage from inside the gated community that the color way might be most likely Ochre with the roof angle being also most certainly a hard none-negotiable including the used roof tiles...
Obviously, surrounded by stupid Americans the King of Prussia does not come to the same conclusion as the NiggerJew and his weired schizophrenic assumptions that just put an ass before u and me - assume_ingly in all of Germany.
!
Go fuck yourself. All of them.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
This here, is as my verdict, incredibly unstructured.
The company is one of the two leading Personal Brand based consultancy companies in the German speaking world.
I want to jump on an initial statement of this lead consultant about moving data from one online LLM to another.
He says, that is not possible.
He must refer to the chat sessions, because the connected company data remains local even if uploaded. You don't delete the original file. In computing there are to commands very different which is copy and move. Copy creates a duplicate and move first a duplicate and then erases the initial file. Using the upload button on any online LLM is a copy command.
Then we have to understand what the corporate user does in the online LLM with his data. Most likely that is in majority actually search tasks and few reasoning tasks. I assume so based on the German attitude at work. Basically, you only get the job if you don't have to ask questions, which in the context of LLMs means you got the job to do the reasoning. An Assistant in Germany is someone that takes on based on clear communication lower tasks. That attitude is so strong in the culture that a German Project Manager is much different than an Anglo-Saxon one which form also the internationally dominant type.
In Germany, this concept is heavily tied to the cultural value of "Fachkompetenz" (functional or technical expertise).
Here is how the Anglo-American/PMI model of a project manager contrasts with the traditional German reality.
## The Contrast: Mediator vs. Technical Authority
## Why the German PM is a "Chef" Figure
In the US or UK (the cradle of PMI and PRINCE2), a PM is often viewed as a generalist manager. A good PMI manager can theoretically manage a software project today and a construction project tomorrow, relying entirely on processes, communication, risk matrices, and delegation.
In Germany, that approach often fails due to specific cultural expectations:
* Respect must be earned via Expertise: In a German project team (especially in engineering, automotive, or IT), a PM who only "facilitates" and delegates without understanding the underlying technology will quickly lose the respect of the team. The team expects the PM to be a Fachmann (an expert).
* The PM as the Ultimate Filter: German corporate culture values low ambiguity and high precision. Project team members expect the PM to make firm, data-driven technical decisions. If a conflict arises between two technical paths, the German PM doesn't just mediate a compromise; they are expected to act as the "Chef" and choose the technically superior path.
* "Sachorientierung" (Task-Orientation): German business culture is highly task-oriented rather than relationship-oriented. A PM is not there to coach feelings or gently mediate personalities (as emphasized in IPMA’s "People" dimension or PMI’s servant leadership); they are there to ensure the Sache (the objective/product) is engineered perfectly.
## The Irony of IPMA in Germany
Interestingly, while Germany's dominant association is the IPMA (via the GPM), the way Germans execute IPMA is different from other countries.
IPMA heavily emphasizes behavioral competences (negotiation, conflict resolution, leadership). However, because the German market is so dominated by engineering and the Mittelstand, German companies layer a strict requirement for technical seniority on top of the IPMA framework. A Level B or A Certified Project Manager in Germany is almost always a veteran engineer or senior technical specialist who has climbed the ranks.
## The Modern Shift: "Agile" is Challenging the Chef
This traditional "PM as Chef" model is currently experiencing a massive cultural clash in Germany due to the rise of Agile methodologies (Scrum, SAFe) in the tech and digital sectors.
In Scrum, the traditional PM role is split between a Product Owner (the business "Chef") and a Scrum Master (the ultimate mediator/facilitator). Many traditional German companies are finding it incredibly difficult to transition to this because engineers are culturally hardwired to look for that single, technically superior "Chef" figure to make the final call.
Are you navigating a situation where you need to assert authority with a German project team, or are you structuring a project role for a German subsidiary? Let me know your context so I can share specific strategies for bridging this cultural gap.
In conclusion, an International standard PM would naturally heavily use the reasoning capability, and thereby use the LLMs differently than a German one, to quickly find demand for creating his own local and personal Knowledge Base.
The local LLMs are in that context a logic add-on to the large online LLMs, but no exchange, that are alien in nature to the way Germans conduct business operations.
That is exactly why I lost my last job instead of becoming Director of Knowledge Management connected to Teams lead by Supervisors or Managers in each connected company division.
My project hooks up directly there. The Cyberdeck AI Knowledge Management System published under the Apache 2.0 license is meant to be build and by the nature of the task not to be installed.
The system is dedicated to the international market and to the very technology affine willing to invest into the position the company I worked for decided to never create.
In this blogg I am just letting off my frustration about Germany. The website is clean off that.
The Thesis style website explores what LLMs can do and the first stand alone version is ready to be build with no coding need, but a lot of Linux customization. If you are interested, read through the website, take an old Laptop and start getting into Linux.
You will have to build your own system over time supposed to host your very own Knowledge Base build by having the large online LLMs as your reasoning support.
If you travel, I recommend to get a used small form factor Laptop that will quickly become your second Computer and companion. If you are mainly a desk office worker get a tiny form factor desktop and use either a HDMI switch or have an addition monitor added to your desk. Do not use your main computer. Do not go dual boot being a Windows or Apple OS user.
It is a system that cannot exchange any human. It is an AI System.
#opensource #cyberpunkcoltoure
How do they do that?
If I ever would have had "nicked" a 911, my experienced impression would not have been what they mean, right?
They refer to a screwing issue. Not a loos one, one that cuts off...
How do they do that??? Timing-wise I mean! Taking the piss out of themselves, now on a public level, on that incredible level.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
I got Ubuntu 26 LTS now running... the sweetest desktop I ever had and I am building up the 64GB node, too.
That's real vintage, not retro. Innit?
Idiots.
Ok. You are aware that prices for basement made thinking machines will rise and most of your classic dealers have no way to get into that very business, being dumb idiots on drugs.
Are you?
#cyberpunkcoltoure
You wanna think about that.
He starts his entire evaluation of Saint-Denis with the arrival of Crack at the Gare du Nord.
The Gare du Nord is not anywhere close to Saint-Denis, but by the amount of sun resistance humans and the fact that someone must have hired West-Africans as pushers turns that Suburb into the origin of the problem
Now lets transfer that Mind Set to Snowfall. The Amazon Prime broadcasted Show is pretty accurately showing a micro-cosmos of Los Angeles in the 80ies ot 90ies in which a CIA Crew managed to find a Crew of Useful Idiots, being Afro-American, which does not hesitate to use Network and Affiliate Marketing techniques for turning latterly their High-School friends and affiliated housing project into using and selling Cocaine and then Crack.
We now may assume that the High-School kids around the Projects called Housing Estate on their own smoked about all of Mexico dry of powder by for reasons of efficiency turning it into Crack, financing their Black habit by stealing from the working man, being Caucasian.
But when I tell you the Leighton Barracks High School in Würzburg founded a hardcore Terrorist Gang structured in independent, none-connected Cells from Street Sport enthusiasts as a response to CIA, also active in the military facility, being way to deep into the Drug Game for anyone's good, it is a hallucination to be ignored by a Schizophrenic.
?
Go fuck yourself.
#cyberpunkcoltoure #provos #terroristgangs #undergroundwars
A sign that you have serious issues is to start a report, any actually, about Paris with noting straight after that there the rights of men were invented, that they invented the metric system.
I am sure you don't get my point, you - who has said that, and the rights of men have not been invented there, they made a crucial step in the manifestation of that philosophical journey about life and living, so.