For Razib, 2024


︎︎︎ Curtis Yarvin

︎ July 27, 2026

Procrustes, the bandit,
     Had a standard bed
          Long as an average man.
His captives, cut or strung
     To this statistical mean—
          Or threatened at least!—
               Surrendered their treasures and truths.
Razib: you broke me
     With numbers and figures,
          From the ancient death cult
               of human uniformity.
To see the world wrong
     Is to set the world wrong,
          And the one true god
                The god who made the world
                     We measure—all others are myth.
All others are devils—fathers
     Of lies—axemen and ropers
           of the bloody bed. Razib!
Though wiser than me, you
     Look older. Happy birthday!
Our nucleotides, tattered
     With half a century's gray,
           Will judge the rest of the race.
These polymers, durable
     But hardly indestructible,
          Have seen mutagens and vitamins,
                Breaks and copies and repairs.
Mark Twain's elephants
     By the herd, war and peace
           Abroad and in the home—
At fifty, no ambition remains:
     You are who you will always be—
          Hope's last home is health—
                  And I can give you hope for free.
Let year after year after year
     Chime with text-cascades
           of HBD.



Curtis Yarvin is a Bay Area writer.

Also by Curtis: For William and Kristine