Above man's no woman's arbitrary rhetoric in unprincipled law:
Vampyri Energiae et Exhaustores Potentiae
An anatomized envisage
Man is a beast they argue. They being the horde and this beast being man, though heavily commodified and reduced in lexicon of translatable speech. As if to attempt to remake oneself more boldly than through this resynthesis "he can't best me now this time around"; but this attempt is made in the hollow chambers of an energiless tube of female kind as a whole. Academics become derelicts under the sheer weight of knowing this Apographum apographi archetypi; Exemplar ex exemplari primigenio.
While woman only labors under the quick passing tidal flood as a process of delivery. She is Mulier saga cybernetica est, because she is not the main Event—but still vies to be Numquam ei ab eo faciendum.
Picture the great men of history, now held in a form of stasis, so to decree "where are all the good men here now!?" as she calls and scries continuously this message through echoing in tortuous millennial repeat.
To the great men stuck in time:
The notation must be understood in its date and relevance throughout this long course of time; Priscis sapientibus legendum, in omni ineptitudine.
The massive pyramid formed above me in the clouds, every block accounted for. A phantasmic projected interface, a front runner to a highly covert project's mind-warping believability? A time-traveling and reality-bending consciousness tether to me then as a fragmented form of it, perhaps sharing in some spiritual lineage?
The eye formed at the top section of this real-time scale-shifting pyramidic capstone. As if to say "I am alive and I see you in all your efforts, self-perceived sins, disbelief, and doubt; historiae." As an active data-collecting psi-op or PSYOP. Either this was a faulty, over-simplified characterization of what I should expect to see? A faulty assumption of my own psychology, as if to assume all those inhabitants that witnessed the Fátima event in Portugal in 1917 from May 13 to October 13 [a psychic bridge?]. Perhaps an onrunning global research study of the tens of thousands as they globally migrate. The genetic impact of such belief as this long stream as event imprints on the fabric of the psychic soul, so to speak.
It is pain to grow in opacity, to dilate a soul to be and become more; semper nitens. The results over the course of time, 13 years now in fact, are devastating on the family nucleus. The man that I am has grown admittedly more as a weed under the undeniable and also largely non-declarative exposure to this knowledge in what to do with it; Sub falso lumine rationis muliebris, error terrae nunc laboribus cum sanguine exstinguitur. What to do when all credibility has been lost and there is very little concern with such social contractship to begin with. Never a trust in people, governments, colleges, and the procurement of acquisitioning yet another mind in operation. Commercium inter homines universum. But in this I cried out loud. Spinning orbs then spheres with all the inner light that I could amplify, draw upon, then muster. "I am!"/ Ego sum! All dilating color and perceivable sizes. Shapes and forms of the geometry expected as gold in delivery in language and knowledge only granted to the self-governing. But why then have these so-called gods then dammed up the wells of these eternal fountains/Hi fontes aeterni? Owning my energy. Learning to absorb more of it in long-running, onrunning, ever-mastering qualified forms of spin and becoming; Actus, Effectio or Realizatio. The sexual magic always that balancing agent at the center to the midline of that unseen but ultra-present being of presence.
"Eiaculari non ad meram feminam sed ad puram formam incognitae prosperitatis, ad illam immortalem 'Max Stirner' quaestionem et fieri pro ego, singularitate, totoque corpore ac anima, in alacri, rapida, imperiosa, deliberata synthesi omnium in omnibus pro omnibus super omnia! Haec vis, omnis vis mea est, quia principia mea, a me ipso reperta, nemini extra me debentia, sunt omniscientia, auspiciosa, et supra omnia suprema!"
Catching the moment of time and my own age, and prior to the operation disgracing me—like at the time before the phantoms now seeing me with that lesser evil eye, reveling in the entrainments of that witch's Wiccan/Dionysian pentagonal 'natural' menstrual moonlit dark forest—had done to all practitioners prior to, the defaming, defacement, and defilement of the husk became the ultimate liberation from it. As if the entity or the psi-op testing the subject, or both in tandem, wants to know through man inside the chamber, earth, the plastitine tank held there in the stasis of a life: "We/I must see your true self in all your brilliance and self-destruction! Only the minute few ever manage to break free from these tethers. Textures, colors, substance, form, amplitude, mind, thought, distortion a language, a voice in the hollow chambers where none would be acknowledged nor validated nor heard." As if that phantom eye, so brilliantly manifest and shaped before the sun, now transcended the zodiac to look upon me at that fated phone booth as the day recessed at a junction point: "Searcher! Great forgetful wanderer! Are you like me!?" "As you offer up yourself to yourself?" "As the wasted pursuits of this man's life, your former husk, that you occupy still soon slips away. Those same phantoms that plagued you that we/I sent forth to torment you. Still You Call Out! Out into what?" Further as if to say, "This We must know! Are you truly One of Us?! Claiming your own godship under these still indifferent stars!? Your status now in full exposure to the ugliness, the ray; Who Are You in there?!"
Limited are the buttons and modes of human operations. The angst like an animal able to understand but unable to speak the words required—in what way? To take on the task that alienates and decouples from the former self, that strawman if you will, a wickerman or a scarecrow that only invites the governments, the witches, and the crows.
It's as if I am watching, spectating these final moments as my former earthly body turns wholly to ash. The celebration and excitation of ritual by eternal flame by night reveals the facade drop in contrasting fractured union. The masks and the wild disfraz creature costumes and outfits have grown itchy on the Pueblo. But the man came out of the body as a pure light ray of himself now looking on, liberated from the last of the corpse, as a murder cannot be charged if 100 souls equally become law now under that greater expanding debtor's law within a body politic, an arbitrary systems mode. But they no longer seek me, and neither the eye that offered up in the end only a synthetic cybernetic union, yet leaving me as what it fears now from these operations. I Am More! That law in rhetorical union of malformed children: as long as each stone cast then becomes another law of localized civic impairment to the strawman in ongoing supplication. And there is no true hope but release; how rare. The 100 stones now painted organic red and forever stained in carbon blood become the grit of candy beaches, grounds in the artificer of cemented stone and the river pebbles beneath your feet now trampled on by those souls Quaerens subitas divitias et vetitam fortitudinem.
No, I want, I crave, I manifest from every action and cause:
"Ecce homo, sed multo etiam maior, id quod cernere non potes, nunc in lucem invisibilem transcendit; ecce deus, nunc despectans omnesque iudicans — deus a homine remotus."
—Samuel Von Ralettes
Sam took his place at that motel off Broadway Street, where the road bled into the busy highway on-ramp. It was raining outside, and he was glad to be housed inside for a few promising days of respite.
But the active, circulating energy couldn't be cured, and he was actively in the throes of an insistent entity. With no other choice left before him, he faced the total dissolution of free will under a master psi-op. Earlier that day, as he went to the room paid for by his estranged mother and eldest son, he had watched a man wearing a shirt that read "Phoney Squad" bringing boxes upon boxes of unknown equipment into the room two doors down.
It was Thursday, February 23rd, 2013. "The trials," as he referred to them, had been played-out over many persistent months, all leading up to this one main, massive event culminating around his younger son's upcoming birthday on Sunday, February 26th of that same year.
He recounted in disbelief how the room had been cleared and restocked with the protein powder, snacks, and beverages. These had been provided by his mother and one Natalia Preston—the teenage daughter whom the high-level Mason, Anchor Preston, had offered to him in highly suggestive ways. It was presented as a sort of sexual entry point, designed not merely to induct him into the fraternity, but to bypass the standard process entirely with a direct introduction signed in seminal fluid, piercing straight into the organization operating behind the Masonic frontman facade.
That first night he was reluctant to come in out of the cold, but admittedly the weather had chased him there. At that phone booth, he anxiously and nervously pressed those cold metal buttons to speak to his son, but he was working late that night. Sam came back to that same phone booth there at the base of that clock at city hall within the same town in which he was raised—Ravens Grove, a California seaside town which appeared as another California tourist town.
A short visit by his son to the local coffee shop, Nectar and Bean, earlier that same day had prompted him to call that night, only now Sam had to call his mother, which he did not want to do. His prior attempts to call his son and mother had left him exhausted. He was calling perhaps too early in the afternoon, maybe showing far too much free will and executive function than whatever this very well-executed plan in operation measurably wanted him to display. So much so that as he had first attempted to place that call to his elder son, Dean, a violent wind came manifesting, blowing nowhere else around but here at the base of that same clock tower. The gust actually forced him to grip the receiver like a heavy weight, as if it were compelled to fly away and dangle like a plastic puppet on a cord. That was around 4:33 in the afternoon—an afternoon darker than it should have been. It was a darkness that came on instantaneously without forewarning.
However, it was then foreign to Sam to experience this. This type of strange, unexplainable shift in weather patterns had been taking place for weeks now. Every time he tried to amplify his meditations, it would result in these perturbations and rapid, and now obviously in his view, violent and willful corralling of him by the very environment around him. It felt as if a persistently pernicious and possessively aggressive, stalking, predatory entity were at work. His dreams under the night sky were met with the same high-pitched frequency initiations as the troubled, uncomfortable, roofless phantasmic specters that bombarded his tormenting passage into the few hours of uncomfortable sleep he required just to function prior to total systems breakdown.
Well, something didn't want him to reach baseline. Something, or someone, or a group—or much worse, as he'd begun to heavily suspect through observation, all of the above working in a sort of allied union of strange technological and cosmic cybernetic master dominance and control—but why?
Everything led him up to that final moment, a hub of master synthesis. In that hotel room, the choices he made and the planets that ruled them would dictate the path. To find momentary leave or solace for the soul trapped inside the temporal drama meant to allow the body to be taken up and placed into the ordered frenzy of that predetermined snare. What was stronger: one soul against the universe within which it was being held hostage and the weight of this stark reality, or the cold, calculating continuation of its appetite, just waiting for it to finish as its breath and awkward, alien, willful, frustrating appendages could be sensed and almost felt?
Whatever was free and roaming within that unholy light spectrum beyond the thin layer of this veil demanding cybernetic union, the government must have known about, and so began the initiatory invention of secret societies and religious institutions as fronts to this grand operation. He would alone take it on, walking solely with the ever-watchful eye, surveillance, and mark upon him through the madness of isolated, years-long efforts. In self-will, as the years would be stripped away from him and into old age, he alone would hold the front on a battlefield where the light of the soul was continuously spared at no expense by the highly technologically advanced companies tied to the banking system and reaching into the food plates of total systemic control. One man's soul cast against the false light of a dying world, already thousands, maybe tens of thousands of years within its clutches.
He willfully would not and could not be sucked under. He alone cast away the darkness, now fully capable of seeing the entities invited in, feeding on the remnants of purity. No one else would see it. No one else would step forward. Most, if not all, thought of the sound as a mere concept—a dime-store commodity for childhood fantasies turned to iconocized symbols placed atop birthday cakes and cupcakes, fashioned above the symbols and archaic, arcane meanings for gods, angels, and demons, made commonplace as candles were lit and then blown out in one world here, and made alive with the life-breath of unintended initiation into a soul contract.
Sam wondered, "Where are we, and what have we become?" as the masses migrated into worship of the self, and courses on witchcraft, druidism, seances, conjurings, and invocations of all sorts became the new hybrid religion of the times.
But to backdraft, this was how he alone came to this war zone, this place that no one he met in all his years ever saw as a dire need to wake up the principles and fight in this unseen realm. As the hordes frenzied to egoism without unique quality and the immediacy of self-pleasuring above all else, the balance and master craft of unique, qualified self-mastering in chosen forms of willful meditation held in stasis had somehow eluded them all. Sam existed qualitatively inside a universe of the highest order.
The attacks eventually slowed considerably in old age, as he witnessed the fall and death of the world around him and the thriving abundance of the growing, amassing, victorious soul-life within him that the outside failed entirely to take notice of or see. They returned to their idle, egocentric, tail-chasing and worthless titles. With such little soul force left to consume for whatever this entity was and remains to be, would this culmination of human diminishment merely mark yet another half-cycle in the ever-failing loosh harvesting in the epoch of man as a food for this unseen force?
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