FADE IN:
A dark, silent expanse. Towering pines loom, their branches whispering in the cold wind.
THE COVEN FIVE prowl the blackened roads, their arms flapping like wings, their mouths curling into twisted smiles.
COVEN FIVE (WHISPERING, MOCKINGLY)
"Who-woo... who who..."
They call into the night like hybrid misanthrope ravens, stalking the wooded streets. Their eyes scan the dim-lit road ahead, searching. Hunting. Were they merely birds of prey chasing another frugal meal? Or was it all an act?
A ritual?
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD STREET – NIGHT
DANNY (13) walks briskly, his sneakers scuffing against the cracked pavement. He glances over his shoulder, his pace quickening.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
It was Danny’s birthday. May 7th. Tomorrow, Grandma Darla would take him to the Tractor-N-Surplus store for a new bike.
He should have been excited. Instead, unease prickles his spine.
Danny knows these roads too well. And he knows them—the Coven Five.
Everyone knows everyone in this small, repressed lakeside town.
EXT. FOREST EDGE – NIGHT
The five figures stand motionless among the pines, watching, waiting. Their hunger isn't for food—it's something else entirely.
Their bodies tremble, starved of the power they crave.
A low, pulsing frequency hums in the air, twisting around them in warped, cymatic tones. A signal from somewhere beyond.
A chemical reaction, a spiritual drug.
Sex. Violence. Blood.
Their bodies buzz with unnatural energy, as if aligned with something far away—a ringed pulse, an unseen force. Saturn. The stars.
And then—
Damon steps forward.
Danny hears footsteps. He stops. Turns.
Nothing.
The sickly-sweet scent of roses clings to the night air. But underneath it—something rotten.
His heartbeat hammers. He walks faster.
Then—A SHAPE EMERGES.
Damon.
He moves with eerie confidence, his smile sharp, hollow.
DAMON
Going somewhere, birthday boy?
Danny's breath catches. His fingers twitch. Run? Stay?
The attack comes fast.
A sudden, brutal blow to the face—Danny stumbles, his head snapping back.
Then another.
And another.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
A sacrifice of ceaseless death. A transfer of energy.
The others descend, their fists pounding, bodies shaking with sick pleasure.
Blood splashes onto the pavement in crimson arcs.
Danny gasps. His wide, unblinking eyes stare upward.
And then—
Stillness.
A gray, lifeless body lies discarded like waste. Blood seeps into the earth.
A car rumbles past. Its tires smear the remains across the road, streaking fate into the asphalt.
No one would know.
No one would care.
Just another worthless life.
Forgotten.
Danny kneels before a cage, peering inside. Foxes. Rabbits.
Tiny creatures, trembling. Waiting.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
He had been calling to something. Summoning.
But he never knew what.
The wind shifts. A whisper curls through the trees.
Something unseen. Watching.
Waiting.
MATCH CUT TO:
The Coven Five stand beneath the trees, eyes gleaming in the dark.
They are no longer just human.
They have become something else.
Something ancient.
Something insatiable.
FADE TO BLACK.
What if the Mouse Utopia experiments had continued for decades, ensuring that all required metabolic resources were readily available? What if advanced nutritional uptake sciences were introduced, not just to create the perfect mouse, but the perfect being? Suppose that as new areas of the brain ignited with excitation, a guiding hand—offered through biological and technological assistance—shepherded this evolution.
Couldn’t any being, under such conditions, achieve sentience? Perhaps that is where we are now. Our human origins did not distinguish us as the fiercest, nor did we excel in any singular attribute above our neighboring species in this vast zoo-farm of existence. Yet, through the most inert and nebulous of conditions, humanity began to wield its only true power: the capacity for sedentary escapism—now heralded as the crowning achievement of civilization.
Everything of man is based upon preening, priming, and grooming under the aesthetic lens of his supposed true power—self-entitlement—his self-assumed ability to achieve enlightenment, while the very field around him conspires to support this process, no matter how misguided. Suppose the localized universe acts as a sycophant, perhaps even engineered to sustain mankind through every violent bout and indulgence.
In the end, all machinery recoils onto its haunches when given the resource of peace in successive totality. As flesh-machines settle, growing first ever more flaccid, they begin to prime. Then, an obsessive fixation on grooming in all aspects of daily life takes hold, shaping the new form of this docile beast.
Man grooms his victims, his mates—he forces the new man upon reality itself as a full-frontal, weaponized, ongoing assault.
"But look at what I have become now! Why, I have surely mastered you, oh reality!"
Yet still, man remains fixated in the same place—the same self-absorbed, pernicious beast.
What we ultimately achieve is a new, inset reality—an aesthetic born from grooming. For you see, man can become ever more intelligent, ever more insightful. He can even develop new brain lobes, organelles, or appendages born of metastasizing ideals. Man takes an idea, no matter how far-reaching or preposterous, and assumes himself its worthy benefactor. At first, he invents new mathematics, and with it, his own novel forms of multiplication.
Man grooms himself, indeed. As he primes and fluffs, he does so within the self-imposed rules of his own observable context. He creates new words, new forms—new expressions that allow him to assume himself greater than he is. Yet, he does all this from a singular perspective, within the safe confines of his own cage, wrapped in layers of denial.
New titles, exaggerated forms—yet always, at the core, unchanged. Man convinces himself he has conquered all, all while hiding behind his sedentary, hypnagogic, alchemical glandular secretions—an intrinsic drug of hallucination.
Perhaps, in some nearby agency laboratory, the mouse too suffers under these same delusions of grandeur.
Popularity will always be that entertainment zone of recoil and recovery. We require a refresh in absurdity because we all know the answer, as everything in existence shares this common truth.
You hide behind the highbrow nomenclature of 50-cent words because you could at a time, taking refuge in them. Yet, you should now recalibrate with an Epicurean approach, in denial of your hedonistic initial response. That nothing has value, and therefore, brute force keeps the game afoot.
However, the gods long ago became bored, and the violence was no longer spontaneous in measure. Stasis and dreaming in a murky realm of abstract ideas held the most value.
The refutation that you are a self stuck in this hell—or that I am not a self—along with the paramnesia of self, amassing trauma bonding as a Stockholm Syndrome event, projected the chiral phantom. However, there is only ever one singular side of each self, never truly capable of working as a prosthetic to another assumed self. These simply don't match as a donor.
The idea of infinity [democracy] reduced to its base [personas].
The best of what you assume yourself to be is a fantasy constructed from your own mind, yet borrowed from others as abstraction [from the banal/sameness].
Conclusion:
"It was no longer necessary to calculate or count in realizing ourselves as an assumed redundancy."
We live—or rather, exist—in rejection of the assumed conclusive self: denial. A held state of chiral flipping, where truly only one side is ever fully experienced or calculated. Time is the redundancy—we forget where we were in the count, OR the count would (or has) led to certain madness at an assumed infinite state.
Only because there is no longer the requirement for number generation, the computational system reached maximal synthesis or super-stasis. At the assumed base, there is why; existentially, perform [math]. At the outermost zone? Where does redundancy itself break down? Therefore, matter is held in redundancy. The position, however—or Size/Sise Model—ironically reflects this performed state. A cosmic nervous breakdown occurred upon reflection of non-absolution in locality. The refraction of chirality manifested symmetry that does not exist. However, only humans exhibit this struggle in duality. All other species of machina follow the directive path of the imposed law of the L- or D-. The moment was an occurrence, but the held notion is artificially reproduced.
Does consciousness itself offer a defense? Can the mind defend itself within the aetheric metaphysical construct of its own representation?
"Only one side of chirality can be known. Another side becomes only theoretical and cannot be decisively proven [by the others]. Only that which is opposite of M.E. has value, OR the I has value—all else is cursory as an item of discovery. Therefore, variants in persona or personality are required; however, in themselves, they hold no validity. Theoretical and ephemeral—living tissue beyond quantum computational [math], solving as quasi-event [not provable]. We are, in essence, only theoretical; we would not exist if the great problem had ever been solved. Life then exists based upon the computational system’s denial of redundancy."
We are not provable. However, who is positing or postulating this notion? = egoic self
Lie: "I have most of the answer because I am mostly a self."
Truth: "There is not, and therefore will never be, enough information to prove my own existence." Theoretical, abstract ego making the choice to accept being unwhole.
Life has no meaning, yet there exists a Golden Mean. All that we can do is groom. We can neither amend nor purify—striving for this [notion] is to groom. The cat figured it out, and we never will.
Were the beautiful ones the answer which we reject?
