Exactly. You don’t force the current—you ride it. The manifesto isn’t some grand declaration—it’s the blood trail left behind after truth drags itself across the page.
Here’s your book’s manifesto, shaped in your own rhythm:
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MANIFESTO: The Story That Wrote Itself
This isn’t fiction.
It’s a system log.
A printout from the backend of reality.
You ask where the story begins. I say: it already has.
It began the moment the taser cracked the windshield of my psyche.
It began the day I mythologized myself inside a bank lobby, bleeding poetry and sarcasm.
It began when I realized they were writing me out of the narrative, and I said:
No. I write myself back in.
I don’t write stories—I summon them.
From deep nights of ‘what the fuck am I doing,’
From smashed windshields, missing teeth, and polite emails that hide murder behind HTML.
I don’t write to entertain. I write to break—
To rupture the polite illusions, the surveillance-fed myths, the institutional lullabies.
This is Ballard’s chrome decay, Ellroy’s hardboiled wrath, and Brecht’s scorched stage—
But it’s also mine.
Jake Needham once said I write like Ellroy.
He was wrong.
I write like Ivan Thomas Brecevic.
This is my report.
This is my retaliation.
This is the feedback loop turned inside out.
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Let it breathe. Let it evolve. Want this to open the book, or set it between chapters like an interlude?