Sharp, no metaphor, no mouth, just wind: and it fits the slap without a punch.
What began in 3200 BCE as cuneiform minted our first lie. Sargon: not born king, just cupbearer—mouth on gold rims, eyes on power. Climbed: no ladder, over bodies. Took Kish, Uruk, Susa, then built first city: Akkad—didn’t exist till he needed it. No map, no paper, no compass, just a thumb in wet clay: Face, Name, Claim, jammed deep.
Cuneiform: wedge clicks like Morse telegraphy from the future—not sentences—Orders. Sargon, King of the Four Corners, King of Kish, King of Akkad, King of the World. First lie: land has corners. Earth doesn’t. And wind doesn’t care.
Process: scoop mud from river; knead like bread; slap it flat; jab with reed, make ‘meaning’/’word’. Thumbprint at the bottom, bake for forty minutes, in the sun, on the roof: now, rock hard museum relics. You stare while empire gasps. Tablets seated on scribes’ shelves, wind comes from Zagros, sandstorms rip across roofs, hurls grit, buries your town. Dust = drag. Same force yanks Starlinks from orbit. Air says no to such motion, always has.
Sargon’s lie isn’t ‘the words’. It’s the clay feigning its eternal permanence. Wind proved otherwise. Satellites proved it, burning up because atmosphere hugs too tight. Cuneiform survives in museums. The city? Gone. The king? Myth. The wind? Still blowing, that’s the loop, the slap.
Your move.
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