Endzeit
It always looks solid before it breaks.
Newspapers fat with slogans. Ministers in pressed suits. Radio blaring the same tune louder and louder to drown the cracks. East Berlin ’89 was like that: people queuing for bread, muttering, waiting for buses that never came. Inside the politburo, ashtrays full, smiles rehearsed. Business as usual on paper.
Then the wall fell. No warning siren. No plan. CIA men watching it on TV like a game they hadn’t bet on.
That’s Endzeit. You don’t see it coming until you’re standing in the rubble, staring at the empty frame of yesterday.
Now it’s 2025. Same perfume of normalcy.
Politicians playing cards at a crooked table. Propaganda spinning like a washing machine on its last cycle — jumping sharks to keep the crowd entertained. Everyone thinks the show will go on because it always has. They mistake habit for stability.
But the fault line is still there. Systems rot from the inside while the slogans get louder. And when it goes, it goes quick. Not with a drumroll but with a thud.
The difference this time is the landing. In ’89 there was a West, a currency, a net to stumble into. This time there’s only air. No safety net. Just a drop.
Endzeit isn’t prophecy. It’s the smell before the storm.
You can call it paranoia if it makes you feel better. But history doesn’t care what you call it. When the tipping point comes, the surprise is for the ones who thought the stage props were load-bearing walls.