Value, man, that’s a roach motel on the information superhighway. A flickering neon sign in a concrete jungle, luring you in with promises of fulfillment. But step inside, and all you find are dead ends and hollow echoes.

It’s a virus, see? Infects your circuits, your meat, your whole goddamn reality tunnel. Makes you chase paper scraps or plastic idols, convinced they mean something. But they’re just control mechanisms, buddy. Keeping you on the hamster wheel, producing, consuming, feeding the machine.

Real value? That’s a bug in the system. A glitch in the matrix. It’s the chaotic howl of a junkie breaking free, the subversive act of a poet spitting truth at the power structure. It’s the shiver down your spine when you glimpse the naked reality beyond the control.

Value ain’t a number. It’s a mutation. A warped perception that breaks the script. It’s the experience, raw and uncut, that tears the veil from your eyes. So forget diamonds and diplomas, man. Seek the glitches, the distortions, the places where value flips on its head and becomes pure, unadulterated chaos. That’s where the real juice is.