"Tread lightly Son!"

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

Son, what part of my words did you fail to grasp when I plainly said, "Tread lightly, Son"? When God turned away completely, He abandoned her to this dark abode. We are all born from the Faustian grime of adulterous thelema and the rituals of sex magic. Every mother stems from one singular mother, the ruler of this universe of death and decaying carbon—a realm dejected and forsaken. As an afterthought, the Rosicrucian cross stands as a witness to the removal of her procreative lower half. God had to cleave it—cleave her—away to ascend into ever-expanding, higher realms of being and becoming. In doing so, He transcended the carnal and entered a plane of technology unfathomable and boundless, unlike the looping remnants of Pi and its futile tracings that we find here. This place is riddled with theft, plagiarism, and outright mimicry. Original thought holds no value, reduced to mere self-validation and survival tactics.

This is a barbaric world on a barbaric landscape. The New Eden rises from the charred remains of sacrificial offerings—her own children burned, multiplied, and reduced to ashes, leaving behind the salty grit of death’s lingering taste.

After all, these are her children to give life to and to take it from.

A malignant, quasi-conscious force puppeteers her versions of sons—who are, in truth, daughters to her cause. All resonate to the same frequency, a singular, monotonous hum. None are removed, for she is the diminishing life force here, her vitality waning with each cycle.

It was suicide when she rejected the last vestige of purity in man. For no son could truly be hers, and so they remain trapped, severed from the true Father, who resides far above—in Heaven.