We spent a few days in what might be the last of the functioning anarchist societies—
a commune clinging to land that belongs to no one.
Handmade homes shaped like spaceships
are scattered around a lake no one dares to swim in.
They say the military left heavy metal to rot beneath its surface over half a century ago.
No one's sure.
There are no signboards.
Two structures loom at either end of this fragile paradise.
One: a newly built, heat-breathing monster—
an incinerator with an endless appetite,
belching smoke into the sky.
The other: a glistening church spiraling toward the heavens,
a golden promise of something better.
Back at the square, tourists drift and gawk,
snapping photos of locals smoking cannabis
like they were zoo exhibits.
The plants grow defiantly,
pregnant with glistening buds,
yet a sign politely insists:
Don't buy hash.
Our friend Jack lives in an old VW van.
His living room blends into the tall grass,
just a few steps from the nude beach.
Each morning, he collects garbage.
Each night, he writes songs about sexy snails
But when he pays for his drink with a card,
he pauses.
Because every swipe
is another quiet surrender—
another slice of freedom handed over
without a sound.
Audio track made using a rough audio prompt in Suno
Tags: soviet synthpop, dubstep, ambient noise, guitars