Hey,

India’s cockroaches have captured the attention of the world . . . and now it’s 1-0 in their face off with Modi.

Here are a few bangers from the battlefield:

• Protesters had lots of fun filming themselves outrunning panting, middle-aged cops charging at them with batons.
• They stuffed foam pads down their trousers to blunt baton hits.
• Shout out to the protester with the sign that said: “detain me daddy”.

So we’re sitting around HQ here, throwing darts at a photo of donnie, wondering why the hell we in the global north haven’t caught up yet.

Then one of us hit the bullseye . . . the roaches are clearly having a great time fighting for systemic change. but we here in the west are just fucking . . . joyless, aren’t we? When are we going to start having some fuck-it-all fun?

What if every time you prompted AI, it ended with a message like this:

One last thing from the current issue of our mag:

Jazz player Abdullah Ibrahim died in June. Ninety-one years on this earth, and he could still say more in nine words than we manage in a whole issue.

It’s been gnawing at us, because somewhere along the way the West misplaced the sacred.

We lost our sense of awe and wonder.

Maybe finding it again is move one.

If that stirs something in you then grab a copy of this issue, the whole flow builds to Abdullah.

That’s us for this week. Oh, and there’s a full moon tonight . . . go have yourself an epiphany.

— Team AB