Karibooru
Karibooru
https://x.com/yuroroo/status/1793292289047162895
It
was
a
rainy
afternoon
when
I
first
met
Terry.
I
was
waiting
for
a
bus,
my
coat
damp
from
the
persistent
drizzle.
He
approached
me,
his
movements
jerky
and
uncertain,
as
if
navigating
a
world
only
half-real.
His
hair
was
wild,
his
coat
too
big
for
his
frame,
and
his
eyes—sharp,
intelligent,
but
shadowed—held
a
question
they
hadn’t
yet
voiced.
“Are
you...
them?”
he
asked
abruptly.
“Excuse
me?”
I
replied,
unsure
if
he
was
speaking
to
me
or
to
someone
else
only
he
could
see.
“I
can
only
see
you
when
I’m
on
my
meds,”
he
muttered,
pulling
a
small
orange
pill
bottle
from
his
pocket.
“Today’s
one
of
those
days.
If
you’re
real,
tell
me
your
name.”
I
hesitated
but
gave
it.
He
nodded,
satisfied,
as
if
confirming
an
equation
in
his
head.
“I’m
Terry,”
he
said.
“We’re
going
to
know
each
other
well.
You’re
important
to
the
Plan.”
I
didn’t
know
what
he
meant,
but
something
about
his
conviction
made
me
stay
and
listen.
That
was
how
it
began—sporadic
meetings,
always
when
his
medication
anchored
him
to
my
version
of
reality,
always
with
him
bringing
fragments
of
his
mind
to
share.
One
day,
Terry
arrived
with
a
large
box
in
his
arms,
beaming
like
a
kid
on
Christmas
morning.
“Guess
what
I
got?”
he
said,
setting
it
down
on
my
coffee
table.
The
box
contained
a
pristine
Commodore
64,
its
packaging
faded
but
intact.
“Bought
it
off
the
darknet,”
he
said,
tearing
into
it
with
careful
precision.
“These
machines…
they’re
more
than
just
circuits
and
plastic.
They’re
relics.
Artifacts
of
a
purer
time.”
As
we
unboxed
it,
he
spoke
about
the
Commodore
as
though
it
were
a
sacred
object.
“This
machine?
It’s
a
foundation.
Something
to
build
on.”
“Build
what?”
I
asked,
intrigued.
Terry
reached
into
his
bag
and
pulled
out
a
Bible,
a
dog-eared
notebook,
and
a
USB
drive.
“A
gateway,”
he
said.
“To
heaven.”
I
raised
an
eyebrow,
and
he
laughed.
“I
know
how
it
sounds.
But
listen:
Heaven
isn’t
just
a
promise.
It’s
an
algorithm.
The
Bible—it’s
part
metaphor,
part
blueprint.
And
this…”
He
held
up
the
USB
drive.
“…is
the
first
draft
of
SalvationOS.
It’s
an
operating
system
designed
to
simulate
paradise.”
As
he
explained,
it
became
clear
he
wasn’t
joking.
He’d
spent
years
coding
a
system
meant
to
optimize
happiness,
reduce
suffering,
and
create
a
state
of
eternal
peace.
“The
Commodore
is
where
I’ll
test
it.
Simple
hardware.
No
distractions.”
“And
the
A10?”
I
asked,
recalling
the
name
he’d
mentioned
before.
He
grinned.
“The
A10
is
my
failsafe.
A
drone
I
designed.
I
call
it
The
Fist
of
God.
It’s
not
a
weapon—it’s
a
protector.
It’ll
safeguard
the
code,
ensure
no
one
corrupts
the
path.”
We
spent
hours
that
day
tinkering
with
the
Commodore,
talking
about
theology,
technology,
and
Terry’s
vision
of
heaven.
His
mind
was
a
whirlwind
of
contradictions—chaotic
yet
precise,
grounded
yet
otherworldly.
As
the
day
faded,
Terry
packed
up
his
things
and
stood
by
the
door.
“I
only
see
you
when
the
meds
work,”
he
said,
his
voice
quieter
now.
“But
you
remind
me
that
this
world
isn’t
all
bad.
That’s
important.”
Then
he
was
gone,
leaving
me
with
the
faint
hum
of
the
powered-on
Commodore
and
a
mind
full
of
questions.
Wunderbar