Cymatic Undertones

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

A League. A Secret Society. Rituals act as a binding spell. A technocratic spiritualism few would dig beyond Baphomet, Baal, and Moloch. Lucifer—a superficial layer to the game afoot in an eternally brewing commode of stool. By babbling brooks, a creek bed of ice-cold water rushes death.

People were positive once, somewhere in some subset of time now far removed.

Deep guttural bass resonates—a sublayer primal tone. I am here. I am grounded here in the truth of what has always been and shall remain. Existing here now as more a permitted and required rudimentary frequency. Yet, there are those who do not sync into these same roots in reality—the false ones. Parasites that turn the original or pure ones into pariahs, indigenous stains on this artificial reality.

Stygian satanic pentagrams manifest through occulted hellish parameters. Psionic margins scry echoes back that certain shade of green. Hypnagogic dimensional hallways call back a dead thud. Schadenfreude—dismal, murky, and black. Vantablack covers that pernicious glow of grassy emerald green. Neon funerary green. Far removed from life but always existent. Watching. Waiting. Persistent and patient inversion on principle, tone, and hue.

Walking hastily yet assuredly up those symmetrically contorted yet Phi-swirl unending spire steps. Looking down, I wear the same archaic leather shoes as Francis of Assisi. Geometry in nature. The curious phosphorous pyre burns there for thee, with the unseen eye of thorn.

Recall—only you write the words in the play; that story long and already cast within. Soon to reach the gate. God does not exist, and if God does exist, it is an all-pervading Preying Mantis, an insect on a never-ending hunt. A hunt for the food and nourishment of psychic souls in want. Prove them wrong! Prove it wrong! For it is your birthright, if any could be stated firmly. Transparency in exposure—as to lay them naked, raw, and undeniably prostrate upon the mighty proverbial river slab. Time acquisitioner. Reveal them all as this fork of synthetic malfeasance, long dead and reincarnated again in cycles as property of ritual in spell.

You control that spigot—that flow of blood met with cold, stale oxygen. An interdimensional electron storm, a junction cleft where nuclear forces wane. What then holds us altogether now? That flow of money, resources, holographic green entrapment. The eye looks upon you—that flicker to the flame, arcane and esoteric. Deep, deep, dark, and crude. Dark matter molasses, dew of occulted anointed, though unsacred. Thick Vantablack oil drips throughout aeons of vatted carbon body rot.

Society—a hall of masons enforcing lesser roles.