Gabriel Jeroschewitz, July 13th, 2026, dedicated to Anthony Burgess and the book A Clockwork Orange in Kubrick’s vision of that book.
I write to that invisible tribe of like-minded mad creators
Dear Most Honored Curator of the Ministry of Uniqueness,
O my brothers, here is a humble epistle penned from the cold and humming depths of Block 9-C – where the buzzing fixtures buzz with the energy of a thousand angry eyes and where the air exudes thinly of sour moloko and ideological disinfectant. This is no glossy State pamphlet but the unvarnished expression of a man who has known the loneliness of kavkaz but who happily drinks deep of the sweet nectar of his singular work.
Yes—I am a ptitsa of a peculiar feather. A would-be artist — a self-styled “singular craftsman” — whose fundamental truth is that the universe is a great grotesque joke which is best expressed as a horror show masterpiece! My singular work – a series of interactive, biofeedback “laugh-machines” that ooze neon slime whilst emitting the frequency of a newborn giggle – is currently being labelled “dangerously original” by the Central Committee for Aesthetic Conformity. They speak of threats to the social contract whilst I observe only a threat to the boredom that renders our citizens into zhopa-driven automatons.
Let us speak of the fundamental loneliness that courses through every kalkulirovaniye – a low-frequency drencrom no amount of breath-work can silence. Such a primal, malenky signal settles in the gut like “You are a stranger to the herd – and the herd will eat you alive should you stray too far”. Remember the old days before the Great Uniformity Act when the tribe would cast out the krom who painted outside the lines? Today’s exile is not of a physical golova upon a spike, but of a cold shoulder from the govny of coworkers, the penny-dreadful glances of neighbors, and the shouting of algorithmic trolls that bounce off our psychic firewalls.
I know of such a fear in the gloomy hours when the night seems as dark as a cally-filled abyss and when my neuro-circuit lets me signal “Turn back, little malenky bird, before the State’s slick talons pluck you from the sky.” Yet I cannot betray my fundamental truth. The singular work is my total being – my krov and my muscles – the only thing that makes the gloomy monotony of our dystopic existence bearable. I have tried the somatic drills, the breath exercises and mind games prescribed by the State’s wellness gurus – they are, frankly, “escapist play time”. They may smooth the surface, but they fail to penetrate the intrinsic levels of my deepest fear and resistance – the psyche-brain-nervous network that screams at the very thought of presenting my laugh-machine to the public.
O Most Honored Curator, I have chosen a means to penetrate those fundamental levels – the most primal way possible: I write letters. I write to you. I write to that invisible tribe of like-minded mad creators who hide behind the mask of conformity. In every sentence, I dissolve a little protective slime coating my inner walls. I uncover the trauma of being seen as a dangerous original—the punchline to every State-approved comedy routine. I reveal the primal insecurity that makes me crave the tribe’s approval even as I spit upon its face.
Such is the humorous element of this loneliness – the joke which never lands and whose punch line is always out of synch. Standing before the mirrors that comprise the Ministry’s reception area, one sees a hundred identical faces draped over the same mask of smug compliance. Behind each mask, however, there is a tiny but unquenchable flame of singular desire. Such a flame is lonely in the knowledge that burning too bright will ignite the censors, while remaining dim will extinguish the self. This is the primal paradox which defines each day I live – and which I now laugh about – loudly and unabashedly – for should I fail to do so the gloom will swallow me whole.
My singular work is, in a sense, a mirror of the tribe. The laugh-machine does more than produce a giggle—it forces the viewer to confront the nonsense of their own social programming. When the machine releases a pulsating wave of giggle-frequency, the crowd of obedient citizens cannot help but shake off the stifling coat of conformity for a while. They experience a primal release – that kind of joy which the State fears above all other armed rebellion! The machine is my singular gift—my lens through which I view the world—and the Ministry fears me even as it cannot contain such a piece within a bottle of propaganda.
Of course, the road to presenting this work is riddled with obstacles – the State seeing fit to assign a team of psych-engineers for evaluating my mental fitness. They probe my dreams with electro-needles, measuring my heart rate upon uttering the word “singular”. They ask, “Do you feel lonely?” to which I answer with a smile: “Only when I’m not creating.” Such notes are scribbled, their heads shaking in admiration of my defiance. I know such loneliness is no disease to be cured but the very engine of my singular work.
Therefore, I write this letter not for approval – the tribe can keep their cold shoulder – but to declare my continued pursuit of such singular aims regardless of the gloomy prophets of conformity. I shall penetrate the deepest layers of fear that define my spirit, I shall laugh boldly in the face of primal anxiety, and I shall offer the world a flash of unadulterated, human joy – even if that joy manifests within neon slime and sounds like a baby’s giggle.
Should you have any recommendations for navigating the bureaucratic maze of permissions whilst preserving the integrity of my singular work, I would be most grateful. If not, then accept this letter as a slight act of opposition – a tiny crack in the wall of uniformity – and a reminder to all that the human spirit can still laugh throughout the darkest clockwork night.
Yours in solitary but smiling,
Mikhail “Mik” Vorobiev
Architect of the Neon Giggle-Machines
Block 9-C, District of the Eternal Grey
