Propaganda is the art of lining up agreeable words to gently silence doubt. It wraps human reason in a sweet melody and ultimately marches it to the same tune. Inconvenient facts are often shoved backstage while only flowery speeches reach the audience. More powerful than a loudspeaker is the uncritical applause of the masses.

Property is the collective label we hang on beings and things, a peculiar ritual by which we seek comfort. Every judgment is justified through property, which simultaneously locks others out. We debate property to conceal our own ignorance and prejudice. Ironically enough, the more one emphasizes a property, the more suspect it becomes.

‘Property management’ is the craft of navigating a sea of keys and paperwork caught between tenants’ demands and landlords’ expectations in a perpetual loop. A notification ping means rushing to the scene, lamenting the ceiling’s cries during a downpour, and enduring the paperwork’s scream at renewal season. Success lies not in zero complaints but in completing tasks unnoticed. Failure is marked by leaks or late payments—events quickly logged and stockpiled for the next crisis. The relentless, around-the-clock struggle of management is an epic woven by unsung guardians defending their fortress called property.

Property tax is the art by which the state silently extracts a penny from the goldmine called land and houses. The notice becomes a seasonal spectacle, sending chills through one’s wallet. Paying it grants fleeting relief, yet as long as you own property, the ordeal never ends. It is a paradoxical miracle: depriving owners of freedom under the guise of social good. Property holders cannot relinquish this enchanted toll and wander between joy and despair.

A high-risk investment of peeking into the future, where hits are hailed as proof and misses dismissed as inscrutable mysteries. It grants comfort to the faithful and fuels fresh anxiety in the anxious, a form of psychic entertainment. Dressed in authority it serves as a convenient preemptive excuse, but when wrong, it is conveniently forgotten as obsolete superstition. In practice, the ultimate safeguard against the future is to expect nothing, or so someone once said.

A prophet is a self-styled guide who drags future events from the fog, seasoning them with equal parts truth and invention. Audiences pin their hopes on those words while simultaneously fueling their own doubt. The speaker, performing within a distorted conviction, may be called a compass of destiny or a malfunctioning GPS. They prize drama over accuracy and crown themselves showmen of the unknown.

Prophetic justice is the grandiloquent ritual by which a thundering voice proclaims the future to justify the present. Under the guise of revealing truth, it stokes fear and guilt, transforming itself into the perfect shield for inconvenient deeds. It orchestrates a flawless harmony of deflection and delay-of-blame while marketing imaginary absolution in the utopia of tomorrow. In this theater, drama triumphs over logic, and tomorrow's doom becomes the curious paradox that legitimizes today's transgressions.

A practice of proclaiming the future in lofty verse while inscribing nothing more than self-satisfaction in the present. Each hymn of doom or deliverance leaves the reader awash in anxiety and false hope. It elevates fragments of truth into gilded illusions, a ritual of intoxication on paper. One regrettably laments the waste of ink, yet secretly yearns for the next cataclysm. The true art lies not in foretelling history’s return, but in perpetually reenacting oneself.

A prophetic utterance is the art of exploiting people’s anxieties by proclaiming the future with absolute certainty. The more baseless predictions pile up, the more the audience loses track of what to believe, leaving only the speaker with a sense of mastery. This is rhetoric at its finest scam, masquerading an uncertain fate as settled truth to sell both reassurance and chaos in one package. It serves as perfect bait for religious authorities and investment advisors alike, spawning a self-fulfilling prophecy loop. In the end, the truth always resides in the teller’s pocket, and the future is nothing but bargaining material.

Propitiation is the social ceremony of sprinkling oil on the raging fire of someone’s anger while conveniently dousing one’s own guilt. It has been beloved since antiquity as a trick not to achieve true harmony but to spectacularly dodge personal responsibility. Its real purpose is not reconciliation, but the embarrassingly stubborn safeguard of one’s fragile ego. In daily discourse, a single apology transforms into a lavish illusion of peace, a magic trick that persuades all involved to forget its emptiness.

Proportion is the socially acceptable excuse for aesthetics, the polite lie bridging the gap between dimensions and confidence. The more one chases the perfect ratio, the more opportunities arise to critique someone else’s measurements. The so-called golden ratio is merely a marketing ploy dressed in Greek letters. Designers preach "proper proportions" while actually following the latest trend equation. In everyday life, it’s the futile ritual of weighing your self-esteem against a clothing size chart.

The proportional representation system boasts of dividing every voter's voice equally, yet it often results in a proliferation of minor parties and legislative fragmentation. Voters inscribe their ideals onto ballots while actual seat allocation is left to party calculations and backroom deals. As a result, the average citizen spends their days wondering if their lone vote truly made it through. A cynical contraption where the allure of perfect democracy coexists with perpetual doubt.