Neocon Dreams stages a theatre of the grotesque, where the polished faces of authority stand oblivious before the inferno they themselves have authored. The men in suits—avatars of finance, policy, and control—stare downward into their glowing devices, as if salvation, or perhaps escape, might be coded in pixels. Behind them, the world convulses: fire rises, ash blooms, and the air is thick with the howling of those already consumed by disaster. Yet in the foreground there is no urgency, no panic—only the trance of scrolling.
This image confronts us with a cruel paradox: the end of the world does not arrive with panic and rupture, but with calm indifference. Catastrophe no longer shocks—it is consumed as spectacle, flattened into background noise against the narcotic glow of technology. The suited figures do not resist collapse, nor do they acknowledge it; they metabolize it into silence. Their smiles are the most terrifying detail—grins untouched by the mushrooming fire behind them.
The dream here is not one of utopia, but anesthesia. It is the dream of those who mistake management for meaning, metrics for vision. The dream of men who inherit power yet hollow it out from within, until all that remains is ritual—checking screens while the sky burns. They are not leaders but jesters in expensive fabric, mask-like faces peeling to reveal nothing beneath.
The horror of Neocon Dreams lies not in the violence at the horizon, but in the vacancy of the figures before us. Apocalypse has already happened—what remains is the inertia of those too entrenched to see it. Civilization collapses not with revolution but with notifications, with a quiet surrender to distraction.
In this tableau, the audience is forced into complicity: are we watching them, or are they watching us? Their trance mirrors our own. The figures become archetypes of our collective paralysis, grotesque reflections of a society that continues to scroll as history itself unravels.
Neocon Dreams is a reminder that nightmares are not only visions of horror, but also of stillness. It depicts not the chaos of collapse, but its most chilling truth: that it can arrive without resistance, carried forward by men in suits, smiling faintly, as the fire rises behind them.
