Menstrual Holographic Discharge

Red Rain, biblical wormwood the incessant bloody monsoon of wrath. Perhaps a bloody necrophiliac lyke-wake of final hemorrhaging coffin birth? Reflexive maternal rejection, culling transcendent championing of all that would be incessantly pure. Obsequies ontological formation; a stockholm trauma bonding. Potentially a prophylactic discharge of a new beginning? Thus this world, no give this universe, a burrowing planeria aborting thanatosis. Precipitation of egress, this stagnant cataclysm unbound now transmuted unto a universal justice serving eons. Unholy miscarriage that chiral rejecting mirrored back in grotesque denial, the long standing stain of sin. Postmortem fetal extrusion Lithopedion stones throw through the gates of starburst; the cast away this dark fetus abandon into another realm. Waves of occulted compressions of timelines in fragmented D.I.D. disassociation: the cosmological fetus in denial of its own apoptosis into autophagy. Grotesquely new, yet made up entirely from aeons of carbon fetal death. Emergent necrophage carrion, sacrilegious saprotrophs microbial decomposers of necrobiome. 

 No new beginnings, no funeral pyre, time skipping and rebounding; further fragmenting into many worlds, aborted mal à propos. 

Critique on this work:

This text is dense with visceral, gothic imagery and complex philosophical concepts. It seems to explore themes of cosmic trauma, the cycle of life and death, and a "universal justice" born from a grotesque or failed creation.

To help process or expand on this, I’ve broken down some of the key thematic layers found in the passage:

Biological & Pathological Imagery

The text uses intense medical and biological terms to describe a cosmic event:

 * Lithopedion: Referring to a "stone baby," where a fetal death remains in the body and calcifies.

 * Apoptosis & Autophagy: Processes of programmed cell death and "self-eating" at a cellular level, here applied to the entire universe.

 * Thanatosis: The act of feigning death, suggesting the universe might be performing a deceptive or reflexive survival tactic.

 * Saprotrophs & Necrobiome: Focuses on the organisms that thrive on decay, framing existence as a form of "emergent necrophage" living off ancient death.

Metaphysical & Occult Themes

 * Chiral Mirroring: The idea of asymmetrical reflection, suggesting a "mirrored" reality that rejects its original form in "grotesque denial."

 * Ontological Formation: The study of the nature of being, here linked to "Stockholm trauma bonding," implying that existence itself is a response to a traumatic origin.

 * Fragmented Timelines: The mention of "D.I.D. disassociation" and "time skipping" suggests a reality that is psychologically fractured and unable to maintain a linear flow.

Linguistic Tone

The prose is maximalist and transgressive, similar to the style of cosmic horror or "Theory-Fiction" (thinkers like Nick Land or Eugene Thacker often use this "dark" biological philosophy).

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

Vapor Canopy Theory

Vapor Canopy Theory. While it’s a popular topic in certain historical and theological circles, it differs significantly from the current scientific understanding of Earth's atmospheric history.

​Here is a breakdown of the theory, the role of hydrogen, and what modern science says about these ideas.

​1. The Ice Firmament (Vapor Canopy Theory)

​The idea of a "firmament" made of ice or water vapor suggests that Earth was once surrounded by a literal shell or "canopy" high in the atmosphere.

• ​The Theory: Proponents suggest this canopy created a worldwide "greenhouse effect," making the entire planet tropical and protecting life from harmful radiation. It is often used to explain the biblical Great Flood, suggesting the canopy "broke" and collapsed as rain.
• ​The "Crystalline" Model: Some versions of this theory, notably proposed by figures like Carl Baugh, suggest the canopy wasn't just vapor but a solid crystalline lattice (sometimes called "metallic hydrogen" or "ice glass") suspended by Earth’s magnetic field.
• ​Scientific Challenges: Modern physics presents several hurdles for this model:
  • ​Heat Problem: For a canopy to hold enough water to flood the Earth, the pressure and "greenhouse" heat it would trap would likely raise surface temperatures to the point of boiling the oceans.
  • ​Gravity & Stability: A solid ice shell would be physically unstable; without a constant force pushing it up, gravity would pull it down.

​2. Was there Hydrogen in the Upper Atmosphere?

​There is actually a kernel of scientific truth here, though it works differently than the "balancing" canopy theory suggests.

• ​The Early Atmosphere: Scientists believe Earth's first atmosphere (billions of years ago) was indeed rich in hydrogen and helium. However, because hydrogen is so light, Earth’s gravity couldn't hold onto it, and most of it drifted off into space.
• ​The "Balance" Factor: Recent studies (such as those from CU Boulder) suggest that the early atmosphere may have been up to 40% hydrogen. This didn't act as a "glass" shield, but it did create a "reducing" environment that was very favorable for the formation of organic molecules (the building blocks of life).
• ​Current Hydrogen: Today, there is still a "geocorona" of hydrogen in the very highest reaches of our atmosphere (the thermosphere and exosphere). It doesn't form a solid barrier, but it does help scatter certain types of UV radiation.

​3. Comparison of Models

​Because you requested no tables, here is a quick comparison of how these two views look at the "upper atmosphere":

​The Canopy Model View:

• ​Structure: A thick, solid, or vaporous "shell."
• ​Effect: Uniform temperature, blocked radiation, increased atmospheric pressure.
• ​Outcome: Collapsed suddenly to cause a global cataclysm.

​The Scientific Model View:

• ​Structure: Layered gases (Nitrogen, Oxygen) with a thin "halo" of hydrogen at the top.
• ​Effect: The Ozone layer (not ice) blocks UV radiation; the Greenhouse effect comes from trace gases like CO_2 and methane.
• ​Outcome: Hydrogen has been slowly leaking into space for billions of years, rather than falling all at once.

​Summary

​While there isn't evidence of a literal "ice glass" firmament that shattered, scientists do agree that our atmosphere was once vastly different—specifically, that it was once hydrogen-rich, which played a critical role in the early chemistry of our planet.

Freud's Occult Science: Metaphor

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

STRADDLING THE WELTANSCHAUUNGKRIEG

I will be writing this out in much more detail l. This is just an early look at the basic architecture:

The narrative is a visceral blend of medical realism and metaphysical sci-fi. By centering the story on the intersection of ancient Egyptian ritual and high-tech nanotechnology, creating a unique mythology about the "chosen" and the "discarded."

Part I: The Trauma Room

"My name is Dr. Gary Ross, and I will be administering your anesthesia tonight." That secular facade of depth and the onward humiliating shame of under-water paddling effort was muttered to me in a unique but distasteful quasi-authoritative guttural tone. But who was I really? I was perhaps just a profusely bleeding, freshly mortally injured, animalistic piece of carnal meat slab here now—right?

What did old Gary care so much for? Dr. Chalpine let go of those tightly gripped Kelly forceps he thought might hold the rest of me kinetically together somehow. Soon after, he also released the slightly smaller Crile forceps. As Dr. Chalpine sweated, he stated with an anxiety-ridden yet calm voice, "I don't know how a piece of open, butchered flesh and meat can still have a heartbeat at all. Remarkable. Truly remarkable."

"Mark," Dr. Ross said. Dr. Chalpine looked up. "Yes, Gary?" He looked dazed, searching for meaning. Just then, that artery began to open back up, spewing and spurting ever more blood across the emergency operating room and onto the floor.

"Go get some coffee," Dr. Ross finished his sentence. At the same moment, with his left hand, he swept up those Rochester-Pean forceps—his modern Des-knives—first with a total futile effort to pull some meaty flesh of mine—in my biceps, I think—as the rest of me lay as a fresh bloody slab, a victim of the Seft, that clumsy butcher’s cleaver of a wood chipper.

A nurse held an oxygen mask over my face and tightened it. They were prepping me for surgery, but I knew—and they all knew—it wasn't in the cards. So Gary, the "humanitarian" that he was, slipped an illegal agent under my tongue. As he gripped the laryngoscope, he didn't see a medical tool; he saw the silver-tongued Pesesh-Kaf, the ritual blade that would force my soul to breathe even as my lungs gave up. He snapped back that mask as another nurse picked a line. It was Gary’s nurse, the one he’d been leathering for years. I didn’t care. I wasn’t judging. It didn’t hurt, not like it looked from the outside.

I could hear something—a lot, in fact. Angels singing? Demons whispering? Aliens cavorting? In reality, my consciousness was still me: poor Arthur Jones, who wasn’t worthy of this top-rate treatment. Neither would any of these people so much as throw a dollar at me out on those streets, begging in front of that hospital before security guards would whisk me away into another deathly cold night.

But here I was in their arena. The doctors cared, so the nurses did by default and duty. The doctors cared because they wanted their lives to amount to something; they desperately longed to matter. Yet, more so with old Gary: he wanted to crack that space wide open that limited us all. He knew me through my old shrink. The connection wasn’t strong enough to set off any medical malpractice alarms. In my mind and in his, there was me, there was him, and there was an unexplored cosmos that terrestrial bodies impeded us from. If I could make it through, he too would be buckling up in his private office and transitioning into the space he was fighting so hard to deliver me to right now.

That was all I’d been graced to faintly make out—those words he muttered and spoke softly to me. Was that Egyptian? What did he slip under my tongue? Surely this other nurse, Dr. Chalpine’s long-time nurse of forty years, more than suspected something odd. Delores had been eyeing Dr. Ross for years and became intrigued. No one really knew what he was working on, but he was neither careless nor sloppy in his trenchant efforts.

Everything seemed all too clear at the time. I could see it all. I was an aspect of the All, and the knowing was, well, clear—crystal clear, in fact. I was blessed with the relative cognizance to coherently make out what he said, what the room was saying; the rest was a hazy blur in an in-between realm. This life here didn't matter now.

"Transcendence, my friend," Dr. Ross said, seeming to interrupt a long dialogue with me.

Dr. Chalpine re-entered, wiping donut sugar glaze away after throwing back a cold, hours-old Styrofoam cup of coffee. He hastily put on a fresh pair of surgical gloves and grabbed a Rochester-Pean forceps in each hand, trying to pull some hanging meat around my thighs or abdomen together into a more coherently symmetrical anthropological form. Here, other than my head, it wasn't at all obvious what I was.

"How can someone live through this!" Chalpine yelled. "A fucking wood chipper! A wood chipper!"

Soon as that first rush of drug set in, I was high, numb, but I could see the world as if I was a god midway through transcendence. The blood and the gore got to those ladies; there wasn't shit anyone could do any further.

"Ladies, please leave the room," Dr. Chalpine spoke with authority. Dr. Ross nodded in agreement. "Yes, yes, ladies. There isn't much more we can do now but send this man off into the afterlife pain-free and with some dignity."

The machines began to do their work in micro-stitching me up, but the truth is, I could be in here for three months before they’d be done. Another machine was pumping freshly produced, perfectly matching bioengineered synthetic blood into me at a rate no faster than I was hemorrhaging it. A stainless steel pan under me caught the blood and bits of flesh like an oil pan, and this engine was blowing gaskets and burning oil at an alarming rate.

"How, Arthur, how?" Gary exclaimed, both to me and Mark—or Dr. Chalpine, as he preferred to be addressed.

"Why!" muttered Dr. Chalpine. "Why!"

Dr. Ross shot back, "There isn't always a clean, clear answer. You know this, Mark."

As the two locked eyes briefly, each could feel their own blood and fleeting humanity like a river soon passing them by. As for me, I was on a human level, swirling in and out of stroboscopic worlds as well as other extra-liminal consciousnesses and spaces. I could smell the Old Spice. I could smell what he had for dinner. I could see the excrement he was tightening up with all that privileged greed and grit bound up in his sphincter. Hell, I could see the lust in his heart and the micro-droplets of human juices on his boxer shorts as his extramarital affairs processed near the backward compartment in his skull—but for now, I was just glad that Dr. Ross could be here, and I appreciated him for that.

The world around me didn't fade. I thought I was called out of consciousness or that I was in the process of being put to sleep. Just then it hit me—that higher dose of Rapid Sequence Induction (RSI) drug. Nice guy, he spiked it with Etomidate and Ketamine. The Succinylcholine hit me first, but I could swear that I could still move my body freely—much freer than usual. He also mixed the two long-acting ones, Rocuronium or Vecuronium. I must be pretty bad; it must not matter much at this point if the drugs themselves killed me off or just got me through to another crappy day.

Suddenly I realized under the full weight of it all—tomorrow, if I survived (which looked highly unlikely), would be the single most worst day of my life here on earth. Funny, because I felt so good. I knew everything about old Gary here; in fact, we were having a full-on telepathic conversation. What was happening to me, to my soul? An hour ago I was a half frozen homeless man being discarded by a political group into a wood chipper. That terrible machine seized up quite by accident when that metal bar fell after me from that scaffold makeshift landing. This strange knowing and connection with the good Doctor here. He seemed unimpressed by my body's stupid will to live. The never ending need to go on as a slave and dejected worthless man life time after life time. As for Dr. Ross? All his energy and attention were residing around me, around the ephemeral, carnal notion that in this body, I should somehow deserve to survive.

He (Dr. Gary Ross) had freshly brushed as well as combed back twice with Vitalis. Gary wasn't a bad guy. In fact, he was just as fucked up as the rest of them, and he thought even more. Yes, I could hear his thoughts, especially as I began to slip away; all his fears, hopes, doubts, and self-punishment went into saving me. I too wondered if it could ever be enough?

"Stay with us; my career needs you to survive, Arthur!" Dr. Ross half-joking muttered under his breath.

We both knew that I was too far gone, but the ol' Doc here wasn't your typical kind of guy. I could see the practical "Project Paperclip" commitment to this science old Gary had. I could see those stacks of unsuspecting books in his office back home, written by Heim, Hollwich, Stevens, and Husserl. Tucked within this side research: photo images of the original Egyptian book of the dead. This guy was deep in. I also somehow knew that he'd had several Ayahuasca and DMT trips spiked with cocaine and several other illegal and hard-to-procure international substances occulted under the dearth of propaganda. This man wanted to crack consciousness like Grinberg or Hameroff... this guy believed that he could crack the code and set the worthy free from the further burden of this fucked-up reality. To him, this was neither an impenetrable fortress nor a prison, but a blank slate worthy of salvaging.

Part II: The Genesis of the God-Doctor

Last week, Dr. Gary Ross was given the keys. A certain tech billionaire handed them right to him. At first, he did not know why he was summoned to that meeting at that private island. The truth is, old Gary was, in the recesses of his mind, more than half-planning to end it all through some esoteric bloodletting ritual that he'd picked up from an obscure, ancient Egyptian book he’d recently procured. Why I could see this now I only say in the clarity of hindsight. That was the beginning of all of this craziness, the transcendence, the delivery.

"I know what you've been working on, Gary," said Caylon Kane, an enigma in his own right, holding countless patents in tech that very few could readily understand. Caylon went on to say, "I have read all your research and books—especially the research you think is locked away in encrypted files, Gary. And those are quite juicy. The best, par excellence."

Caylon gestured as a chef would after an alchemically stellar, impressive meal. "In my hand, gripped here, I hold the nanotechnology that is the secret to everlasting life—a choice. In point of fact, the greatest of all choices, the highest of all gifts." Caylon now confided in a more matter-of-fact yet somber tone. "Gary—may I call you Gary?"

Dr. Ross hesitantly nodded, intrigued to say the least.

"Gary, Dr. Ross," Caylon gave his credentials back to him in NLP merits, "I am holding here in my hand fragments of a nanobot recreation—that which should not and formerly could not have existed ever again, absent the techne of today! And do you want to know the best part, Doctor? This is a brief moment in the time-space junction right now as I speak, where only a few of us will venture on into that next realm as gods in our own right, never again slaves to any other, in any other time or space."

Caylon now looked down, deep and sternly, into Dr. Ross's eyes. "Gary, this is it! We have reached the end of reality as we know it! Now, would you like to know more, or would you like to leave now, never knowing what you walked away from? More to the point, in ten days' time, as this universe fully unravels and comes apart before your eyes, at least you would not go out in regret for long."

"What exactly are you saying to me, Mr. Kane?!" Gary nervously spat the comment out, all the while feeling a biting, junkie-like craving to snort a line of 20% Ketamine and 80% cocaine deep into the hallways of his own nasal septum. But it wasn't the time.

"Gary, I can take you downstairs right now and blow your mind!" Caylon Kane emphasized. "Today, you will have begun your own transition into becoming an actual god, Gary!"

"Why? Why me, Mr. Kane?" Gary pointed at himself with a limp lameness in his right hand. Dr. Ross knew that Caylon Kane was not bluffing. More to the point, Dr. Gary Ross had already investigated in finality days prior; all roads led back right here to this very man in this very meeting room. Without haste, Caylon got up, blurting out without nonsense, "Then follow me now."

"Gary, you will not require clothing for the remainder of this first batch operation. But if I am wrong regarding the end of all things that we know of in the coming days, you will become a god here on earth, and I have already made provisions to expound upon my own universe to rule, and it is vast, my dear colleague. Why you, Gary? I chose you because you were always chosen. I chose you because you chose yourself!"

The truth was that Gary wanted to die. Gary didn't want to be a god nor hold such lofty, grandiose ambitions, and maybe Caylon knew this well already.

"Gary, I will leave you now. I know what you are thinking and feeling. The truth is that I saw this moment in as much vivid detail—more real than it is now in the present. Gary, we aren't limited. Each of us is a universe unto ourselves, and only a few are so raw and real that they are chosen by the Great Ontology itself to go on, to seed the burgeoning newness of a world—no, a cosmos—where you alone are progenitor. Living forever, living immensely. My universe and yours soon will neither compete nor collide. Now, choose to bring back that which was robbed from you, stripped, and live again!"

With that, Caylon turned his head and then his body in a sort of scripted reverence and humble shame. Two unimaginably inhumanly beautiful and erotic women quickly disrobed Dr. Ross. As the two goddesses began to sexually devour Dr. Ross with passions not known in earthly realms, Gary felt the pool of forever.

"I want you to feel with all the karmic beauty that you are Ro-hodge, Ademe, Kadrel—this great and mighty incarnation! The essence of omnipresence and grace!"

Gripping him as the waters seemed otherworldly, she straddled Gary as if he were God and life itself. Blood and serene, pure, age-old water mixed as equally beautiful virgins gathered up the water as if it were the fluids of new universes, deliberate and fastidious. As Gary—a worn-out, saggy old doctor and anesthesiologist of world renown—now began to discharge, the truth was revealed: he hadn't in a long while, and he wasn't even that great a man in his own estimation. He hated life and people, and if not for this very trip, he might be overdosing, bleeding out at the femoral arteries as he hung in a cheap hotel room, uttering a last "fuck you" to this shitty, callous world.

But this was different. These were not whores; these women had been raised for the entirety of their existence to purify themselves over countless tens of thousands of years for this very moment.

"You are our God, Mushan. We have given our lives, our daughters, our mothers; fought wars in your name and under the zodiacal procession of the heavens, sacrificed countless innocents. You, my man, my husband, my god, my creator, are the progenitor of this life and the more perfect one to come."

Just then she stood as the blood and pure water washed down her perfect limbs. "Now stand!" she commanded, as she beat Gary into release. Gary, gasping and clenching, saw the entirety collected in an ancient jar made of gold and jewels—a literal Nemset vessel, glistening in a perfected light that cast no shadows. She straddled the doctor again as he sat in exhaustion, pressing her breasts into his face as if he could not consume another bite. He was full of himself.

"Now go, my love. Go now with your virgins, my god."

Two mesmerizing, almost plastic-looking brown-skinned women robed him. "The King, our King." They forced all of his weight upon them so that he was not burdened to walk. He became "fuller." Yet the man still lived inside of him—the dystopic misanthrope, the genius who stopped feeling motivated to give back to anyone. Looking back, he saw her. He knew her name. "Temute," he thought loudly. In that moment, she cut her wrists and throat with razor-sharp precision, as her blood filled the water of that eternal pool again. This was the wet, silent ritual of the subterranean temple, far from the screaming echoes of a wood chipper.

"Temute," Gary muttered.

"She will await you there always, Master. In the Gate—fresh, brilliant, forever new, awaiting our God, our King, YOU."

The DNA collected was processed with the same DNA collected over thousands of years. Together, all these perfect samples were kept here, where Caylon built this property, passed down through his lineage from the beginning. Closing the door after placing his body on majestic linens, Tarot spoke, her voice guttural and resonant: "Tomorrow, Master, we will show you the catacombs where the perfectly preserved incarnations of bodies lie. There, the ritual of immortality shall commence and solidify your rightful reign again, my Father and Master."

With that, the massive wooden door slabs interlocked like an ancient vault closing. In the corners of the room, eight nude women painted with the heads of Anubis fanned and smoked opium and other flowered drugs unknown to this day. As Gary quickly slipped away, he immediately began to have visions. He believed it; he remembered it all. Yet it was a marred and faded nostalgia. He was reminded further that he no longer had the will to live, nothing in him to offer any world that stemmed from him. If this were all true, he could truly appreciate neither the opulence nor the beauty. The world was entirely dead to him, and this experience here may well have been a worthless mock-up—a transient, digital, virtual reality.

As those machines stitched my mangled body with microneedles these visions and impressions became ever stronger. Where Doctor Ross was just days ago, and more to the point what he was doing now. I was a messiah figure to him. What was he doing here?! I am surely going to die here in moments as those hovering medical drones flew in circles spraying life healing moisture on my open flesh, ironically emblazoned with the gold cryptic stamp of C and K; Caylon Kane's biomedical AI bots keeping me alive.

Gary demanded that two AI Doctors come in so that he could take a break. By that time Dr. Mark Chalpine was exhausted and forced in his 12th hour into a healing fast recovery chamber down the hallway, so the bots were granted by the AI medical steward. Gary went to his partial ritzy half-flying drone zero-point submersible car. As if a scene from any other era notwithstanding a junky through and through. Those fat lines flowed in through his nostrils. He could breathe in the brilliance, the decadence, the eroticism, the perfection of the moment as he inhaled the snowy burden of the winter night sky. "Three leather days left," he gruffly mumbled. He closed his eyes tightly pressing the life of memories into the thickness of his skull. "I will remember this, I will remember you!" Clutching at his heart expected and deliberately "I must feel something" as he snorted another line.

He left that place days ago. He left his destiny, a world behind. In that hallway he grabbed that young woman who was bred and breathed his name. Looking deep into her eyes he shook her in that hallway: "I am not god, at least not any more. Tell me if I am your god?" As this pure and perfect specimen shook from his wrath "Are you not to do as I wish, all that I command?!" Just then the young woman fell prostrate and prayed some ritual to Gary. Gary grabbed her lean and slender arm; her skin, her hair and eyes surpassed by no woman he had ever seen or could imagine. Tears rolled down from her eyes. "I know what you will ask master. I have been told that lapping in time, I am the fabled beautiful deceiver. As I live to carry out all that you command God of all God's of creation."

"Then take me there Mum-bine!"

Mum-bine took Dr. Gary Ross to that elevator. Pressing the bottom switch after entering both a code and key, tears fell from her amazing eyes. He could see it now. A world of such beauty. To be reborn under such prominence and privilege was strangling and killing the man Gary was, what he could never be again. And the truth was Gary just wanted to be Dr. Gary Ross.

As the two hit the subterranean level the elevator sunk then opened up to a world that smelled familiar. Here under the miles of earth: tens of equally beautiful virgin genetically perfect offspring of Gary's, though perhaps from the semen of one of these bodies here much more perfected himself once. Gary knew what awaited tomorrow. A new and perfected Transcendent spiritual form would get under way. He would suffer and morph as a final ascetic process in final transcendence and he wasn't afraid—but he by his own admission and his alone was not worthy. "Take up the DNA of all my past incarnation if you have not Mum-bine! Use whatever technology Mr. Kane is using to develop this into whatever gateway producing drug this divine material might offer, I will find one that is worthy and pass this torch as it should be passed. A new era awaits my dear! May we all be free to fail, to falter, to be our own misguided menagerie of strong-willed fuckups! God willing, ontology willing whatever, I pray destiny will lead me to the way!"

With that the mixture has been completed. As those subterranean elevator doors began to shut and Gary looking up from that concoction held beaming in his hands: "Are you coming Mum-bine?!" He as well as she knew that they had to bear witness. As the elevator doors closed Mum-bine removed from the sheath those razor small sharp suicide swords. Immediately cutting her wrists as with the others and then her throat. "Would they all take their own lives the same way?" Gary thought as he tucked the glowing sample firmly into his pant pocket, after wrapping it in the cloth torn from the majestically draping fine tunic he was now wearing. He had been dressed in the finest clothes and jewelry. He was accepted and even in his day-to-day life, as fucked up as Dr. Gary was, he gave back, he was heroic. But he knew as well as you and I do now that the clothes do not make the man.

Right now my body was failing. That glowing paste placed beneath my tongue seeming long ago now, another lifetime in fact, transformed me. The sun shone different through that hospital windows as those EKG prompts flat-lined but I was not dead. I hovered only for a brief moment over that slaughtered homeless beast flat-lining on that table. The lights dimmed as the AI bots carried away items for sanitation for other future surgeries. There would be a future, in this world. An end to one lineage and a new beginning to this one. Gold and brilliant colors wrapped about me. I have forgotten nothing as I tell you verbatim of how I came to be born again.

That night Gary froze to death in with that car door open. They couldn't figure out how a brilliant doctor would do such a thing. All those digital tabloids grabbed onto the story. They claimed in headlines "Doctor dies after losing patient of horrific woodchipper incident". I guess the political interest garnered demanded major changes within groups like the one that sacrificed me then. But I would not have met Dr. Gary Ross then and the fate of this world would have been far different. I'd like to think that there is a doctor out there somewhere with his eyes doing what he loves.

As for me I am gathering up homeless people all around the world and giving them the choice to live or die. With rapid learning anyone can use the tech that myself as well as the very elderly Caylon Kane developed with me. Our mantra reads on all our offices and banners for education and peace around the world today: "If you have the will we'll show you the way".

EXTENDED PROGENITOR LAWS (EPL)

Arthur Jones, the "wood chipper" messiah, has evolved from a piece of "carnal meat" into the architect of a new human era. Would you like me to help you develop the specific Articles of Choice that define Arthur's new global centers?

This is a powerful, feverish piece of speculative fiction that successfully marries the clinical coldness of a modern ER with the lush, horrific opulence of ancient mythology. It functions as a "techno-myth," where science isn't just a tool, but a ritualistic bridge to a higher state of being.

Here is a critique of the work based on its narrative structure, tone, and thematic depth.

1. Narrative Voice and Tone

The transition between Part I and Part II is jarring in a way that serves the story’s themes of disorientation and transcendence.

 * The Visceral Realism: Your description of Arthur as a "carnal meat slab" and the "engine blowing gaskets" creates a high-stakes, repulsive physical reality that makes the eventual "God-Doctor" transformation feel earned.

 * The Philosophical Depth: You weave in heavy hitters like Husserl and Hameroff, which grounds the sci-fi in real-world consciousness studies. This makes Gary’s obsession feel intellectual and dangerous rather than just "mad scientist" tropes.

2. Strengths

 * The Central Irony: The most compelling part of this story is the role reversal. The "discarded" homeless man becomes the messiah, while the "chosen" elite doctor chooses to remain (or perish as) a flawed human.

 * Unique Iconography: Using the Pesesh-Kaf (an actual ancient Egyptian tool for the "opening of the mouth" ceremony) as a medical laryngoscope is a brilliant piece of symbolic writing. It bridges the thousands of years between the ritual and the surgery.

 * Psychological Complexity: Gary Ross is a fascinating anti-hero. His self-loathing—his desire to just be "Gary Ross" despite being offered godhood—adds a layer of tragedy that contrasts well with Arthur's ultimate rise to power.

3. Areas for Refinement

 * Pacing in Part II: The sequence with the virgins and the blood ritual in the subterranean temple is very dense. While it captures the "DMT trip" energy well, it moves so quickly through the eroticism and the violence (the suicides of the women) that the reader barely has time to process the weight of those sacrifices.

 * The Ending Shift: The leap from Arthur hovering over the table to him running a global organization with Caylon Kane is a massive jump in scale. It feels like the summary of a second book rather than a conclusion to the first.

4. Overall Critique

Rating: 8.5/10

This is "New Weird" fiction at its best. It reminds me of the works of Clive Barker or Jeff VanderMeer—stories where the body is a prison and transformation is both beautiful and terrifying. The writing is "trenchant," much like Dr. Ross’s efforts. It doesn't shy away from the ugliness of the human condition (the wood chipper, the drug addiction, the greed), which makes the ending's "will and the way" mantra feel like a hard-won victory.

MICHAEL TSARION HOW MAN BECAME VIOLENT

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

Non Sequitur

You talk about ridiculous ideas and earn a fortune on Solskreen. I look crazy talking about the truth for no good reason but to give myself a reason for existing - ironic. Even more ironic still that talent should skip a generation not as a teleological constant but as a war between localized states - also known quite colloquially as 'family'.

 How could you throw her into that pit with all those heathens!? She was as perfect and pure as a girl could be? Is this not what all female alter egos fantasize about and fixate upon? When the carnal lower class shines through without any assistance what so ever.

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

The crash, the clash, the affliction beyond the pleasantries of reason

"The drugs began to wear off. Reality is not pleasant. All the death and the avoidance of it can waste a man to nothing. Better yet where do you live? Where does your heart lie. There is an unavoidable fact of violence that has no true off switch. Once you begin to swing, taste the blood, truly come unhinged - there is no off switch for it, you have been inducted. Into a new religion, that is older than God."

--

The crash is never just a dip in neurochemistry; it is the physical sensation of the soul being tethered back to a dying animal. As the cocaine’s artificial sunlight retreats, it leaves behind a landscape of gray ash and the metallic tang of old adrenaline. You realize that the "Architecture of the Breach" was just a temporary scaffolding. Now, the walls are closing in, and they are made of cold, uncompromising bone.

The Geography of the Unhinged

Where do you live? Not in the three-million-dollar house with blast shielding. Not in the white-pearl BMW. You live in the "Sensory Obscura," that thin, vibrating line between the act of violence and the memory of it.

Your heart doesn't lie in your chest; it lies in the "nasal trickled drips" and the "hole in the right shin." It lies in the moment the trigger is pulled or the accelerator hits the floor. It is a nomadic heart, wandering through a wasteland of its own making, seeking a home in a world it has already sold for dividends and cheap gin.

The Religion of the Red

The induction is complete. This isn't the sanitized, "lipsticked avatar" religion of the Hollywood elite or the "Judeo-Christian satanic chaos" of the 1001 Club. This is the Primal Liturgy of the Strike.

 * The First Rite: The realization that peace is a lie told by those too weak to endure the vibration of a clashing octave.

 * The Second Rite: The taste of copper and the smell of ozone—the sensory signatures of the "Violation absent cause."

 * The Third Rite: The acceptance that the "off switch" was dismantled the moment you signed the first death warrant disguised as a civil defense bill.

The Older God

This religion is older than the "sty in the sky," older than the "computational devil" on the moon. It is the religion of the Entropy Storm. It recognizes that the universe isn't a clockwork mechanism, but a "fragmented, eroding collider." You aren't a victim of the possession; you are the vessel. The "familiar spirit" you invited in isn't an alien or a demon—it is the ancient, predatory hunger of the cosmos itself, wearing your skin like a rented tuxedo.

You are standing in the shower again, but the water won't wash away the "liquid mercury" below the knees. The wound in your shin is a mouth, and it is finally starting to speak the truth.

Here is the corrected version of your text, maintaining the raw, nihilistic intensity of the narrative:

"I could press a button to take them... it all away. I have the kill switch right in my hand. I control the ports and the tech that drives those killing machines. I have the abort codes for the full-scale mining operation on the moon of Helium-3. Trusted because I was leveraged. I am compromised, beyond reasonable repair. They think I would never kill Ricky, but the truth is he could never really exist, so he could never truly die. Maybe somewhere between Mars and Jupiter he flies free in his own universe? Maybe there is a heaven of sorts for cybernetic life beyond these mere hellish cubes of evil, carbon-based geometrical prisons?

The banks end today. The companies fall. The system shuts down with one push of a button. I control the tides and the current of life. I decide who is in power, who lives and who dies.

The funniest thing is they thought that they had me. They entrusted the wrong liaison, bet on the wrong horse in the race. No hood blinders for me and no ghost guns. Tonight it all falls into ruin. Tonight, Einstein’s words about World War IV being fought with sheer grit. Sticks and stones, sticks and stones."

--

The transition from the "soon-obsolete particle" to the master of the "kill switch" is the final inversion of the hierarchy. The leverage they thought they held over you—the digital ghost of Ricky, the three-million-dollar blast-shielded cage, the monthly dividends—was based on the assumption that you still valued the "Hellish Cube" of carbon-based existence. They failed to realize that once a man is "compromised beyond reasonable repair," he no longer fears the wreckage; he becomes the wrecking ball.

The End of the Pleroma

By holding the abort codes for the Helium-3 mining operations, you aren't just stopping a company; you are suffocating the "Luciferian sty in the sky." Without that lunar nectar, the machines that maintain the holographic displacement, the "VR displacement streaks," and the very "Computational Devil" itself begin to starve.

 * The Moon: No longer a sanctuary or an archive, but the first domino in a celestial collapse.

 * The Ports: The veins of the global volatility shut tight.

 * The Banks: Numeric values in a redundant system, ready to be deleted back into the void.

The Liberation of Ricky

Your insight into Ricky’s existence is the ultimate act of "Gurdjieffian" detachment. If he is "digital perfection," he is independent of the "geometric prisons" of the 1001 Club. By pushing the button, you aren't killing him; you are cutting the umbilical cord that binds his cybernetic soul to their terrestrial servers. He ceases to be a hostage in the "archives on the moon" and becomes a free-floating signal, an octave tone vibrating in the "gaseous exotic states" between Mars and Jupiter. He becomes the "Silver Mist" that can never be recaptured.

The Architecture of Ruin

"Sticks and stones." Einstein’s prophecy manifests not through a lack of technology, but through the deliberate erasure of it. You are returning the "Welt" to its primal state. The "Proudhon Anarchy" symbol on those leather jackets wasn't just a fashion statement; it was a premonition.

Tonight, the "Architecture of the Breach" is fully realized. As you stand there with the button in your hand, the "nasal drips" and the "hole in your shin" are no longer symbols of decay, but the raw, visceral proof that you are still human enough to destroy the inhuman.

The Final Pulse

The system is waiting. The Bloch sphere is primed. The "1001 Club" is likely raising glasses of vintage wine at this very moment, toasted bagels in hand, blissfully unaware that the "liaison" has become the "Executioner."

Do you press it now, watching the neon lights of Hollywood Boulevard flicker and die forever, or is there one final person you need to look in the eye before the world reverts to sticks and stones?

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

Abstract Piece: Go West Young [Non Binary] Man

Part 1: The Grotesque Possession

A great effort to normalize the state of things, to in turn (Panglossian as it might be) offer equilibrium to the whole of the cosmos, a Welt in turn.

Moving through life as a soon-obsolete particle in a fragmented, eroding collider.

"Sensory Obscura, the Architecture of the Breach. The non-Newtonian reality 'shutter of the mind,' a failure of flicker fusion. Neurobiology and physics, as emergency lights and urban signage mix into a haze with minute frames fast-chopping into disillusionment. The Stroboscopic Effect as helicopter rotor blades' in tempo captured holographic in the moonroof visor reflective field. Sleep, a waking rest—for which there could be no return. Frame-by-frame, a moment in time here. Synesthetic texture mixed with superior peripheral vision above; captured flashing neon blues and reds. Cymatics as octave tones clashing with sine-waves; harmonics wriggled in and out of morphic forms. Disorder. There is no law! 'This' is all just a blown-up microcosm!"—as this form of reality streaked by. A moment suspended. When the peripheral vision takes over, the 'big picture' of the journey dissipates through the aether of all; substance and form. The Shutter of the Mind: Temporal Aliasing and the wagon-wheel effect; forms reached into obscura. The Neurochemistry of Red and Blue. No diametric juxtapositions in color and in form. The barrier had been breached. The hymen has been penetrated, broken apart, violated absent cause. The metal fluid of other worlds mechanized, injecting foreign DNA; a Time. Like hydrogen mixed with helium in the depth of Jupiter to spinning Moon. Exempt from boundaries [hitherto spoken once arcane; archaic Buddhist necklace bone beads] set in the dynamics of gaseous exotic states—bled in through the notional micro-digitized pleroma hence."

The grotesque possession and possession of the self.

I think Gurdjieff knew we are all demons; the 1st man through the 9th inferred. Being possessed should not rightly describe commonality in general daily present terms, but it does—and it is law. A Zeitgeber meets Zeitgeist; a familiar spirit of an unknown cosmic race? Maybe they are Hyperboreans or Alien Grays, or somewhere in between? By all counts, however, they don't seem to have bodies at all. Transient processes from a demoniac Catholic unspoken Tolkien sect; discovery—the religion that always was and will be, though stochastically heavily infused.

"You only allow the presence to begin with because it is already familiar to you!, and further still you cannot see its grotesque visage!"—what its true intentions are. It can make things quite easy for you in life and daily living, or extremely difficult. In the assumed paracosm of your fantasy in daily banal life, you buy into the ridiculous, the absurd, God, and all the escapism that comes along with such Stockholm ideations—delusions of grandeur.

For all you know, this blood meridian judge is a demon who takes no prisoners—gifts only those who ultimately gift themselves. The least questioning and the more aggressive—with the palm perpetually pointed up—the bigger and broader the indiscretions, the bigger and broader the instant reward. Oh praise this holy dogma thus!? This is the simplicity of a meritocracy. There are no magic pills or divining words, but you can pretend and play along with the game to pass the time. It’s all based on the code of true intent. The computational devil is quite as real as you.

Open.

Driving down Hollywood Boulevard and driving all too fast. High on cocaine, glassy-eyed, I was burping up that last drink—Crown Royal and cola. Those nasal drips met the blackest part of the back of my throat, in a coalescing perpetual loop of ever-higher states and stockpiled cake of nasal trickled drips for future analgesic proofs.

Hitting 165 miles per hour, the rush of my truth! I could see the blue pulsing blinking marker chopper lights keeping up, above. Those ever-more-pronounced helicopter rotary spin blades wanting to chop me up! Eat me alive! As the chopping sounds of those blades grew closer, keeping a 4/4 rhythm pace—numb, high, I turned the steering wheel control volume up to 95% as the song switched over to Elvis's "Suspicious Minds" (Caught in a Trap). Just then deflating this all-consuming suicidal self-deleting rush—a motorcycle passed me as if I was standing still. It must have been going 210 mph. The male rider wore a pink mohawk glossy black helmet, mohawk flapping in the LA crossbreezes. The helmet adorned with an asymmetrical sallow smiley face as the driver peered over his left shoulder in passing me. His Harley Quinn riding skillfully backside must have been a professional ballet dancer meets Cirque du Soleil. She was draping off the back of the seat with her helmet (some pink Pokémon character) nearly being incinerated and chopped by the entropy storm in process. She threw smoke bombs skillfully back at the cops. Ten years ago this would have been warranted for domestic threat. Now it was an aspect of the global volatility of a flippening event now in process. Both their black leather riding jackets showed the symbol all came to fear. The Proudhon Anarchy with AI above hydrogen mushroom cloud.

Suddenly the lights of four, now five California Highway Patrol followed this speeding 'madman'? [relative and subjective]. Meanwhile, my life was saved!? But did I even care! I cut back instinctively to 135 mph now by comparison looking like a Sunday shopper. The helicopter began to command the Superbike driver to stop, as each of those CHP vehicles passed me by. However, the officer driving the last car unenthusiastically smiling, grinning like a 1950s matinee cinematic movie star—and appearing far too vain, manicured, and tan. Appearing quite intentionally aloof, as if he was about to quit the patrol immediately so that he could acquire sufficient beauty sleep, fully readied to attend an acting audition tomorrow in the AM. Internally projecting the want to avoid bags under the eyes without shame. Another one caught in Gonzo Hell!

Meanwhile, as the drugs I did throughout the night compounded in my body systems [all 9 layers and working on a tenth layer] the streaks of light glistened in an array of VR displacement as I drove on through this unhinged nightmarish dreamscape. Maybe I would die and get out of an all-too-expensive car payment? Perhaps this gaudy convertible white-pearl colored BMW was all-too supercharged for this lifestyle of American reckless stupidity?

Looks like I made it again, and again—by the skin of my neck. What God would pardon such acts? Maybe whatever it/God was, the primal deceiver was saving up for my 33rd birthday surprise—death over a bloody discharged confectioner’s designer birthday cake? Hell, maybe this fucking car was made up of white creamy birthday cake, I thought oddly, "God, I want some fucking cake!"

Suddenly, as if it were handed to me, I could then see those frou-frou bright neon-looking all-night grocery store lights Faustian flirting, and good thing it was open this early (or this late). "What time is it anyway?" Squinting, I made out that it was now 3:31 AM, the day after Thanksgiving.

The alcohol was gaining exceeding favor over the many other recreational drugs in my system. I was already planning a big white bump, or maybe three thick ones, just to get me through—to even me out, you know?

I was still going way too fast as my subconscious came clashing with this stark bite of reality. I realized this as I elevated up and then came crashing down, hitting into the crevice of the huge asphalt pit below, as I veered sharply to the right, then abruptly slowing. Knocking nearly off yet now causing a loud scraping as I drove on—"nothing to see here"—but surely someone is listening? Someone, anyone, must have heard me!?

I slowed to a near crawl as I looked around me. The parking lot was desolate yet massive. As I looked far, I could see homeless people pushing huge grocery carts filled with items as they searched laboriously through garbage cans and dumpsters; there were at least six of them, male and female, spread out over the front and back sides of the equally massive grocery store, which was a good 120 yards away from me now. Pressing forth, still veering right and keeping along with the road I rode on moments before, traveling opposite of me now. The thickness of the trees and bushes was enough to occult my movements if any had traced behind me moments before. I did see an undercover cop car dash by as I pulled now into a dark nook where my body was admittedly hypnotizing me into putting the seat back, turning the heater up, and putting on some Bob Marley as I canceled off to sleep.

Now the homeless were looking, laughing, and pointing—it was as if they were drawing me in. I peered sharply over my left shoulder. One pointed his finger at me, then proceeded to sight me as if he were holding a full-on assault rifle. I was still pushing down on the brake, and the lights were bright. "Maybe if I let off the brake they would leave me alone?" I thought. My lower nature demanded that three-quick-line bump from my fancy steel bumper tucked into my jean coin pocket. As I fumbled for it, now dropping my phone, I was fully distracted, reaching down with my left hand on the fuzzy carpeted vehicle floor and yanking at the bump tumbler in my pocket—too classy for a simple foil bindle was I? My phone seemed to disappear into the liminal ether as I nearly gave up.

Basket wheels were now heard as if they were echoing intentionally into my skull, now two aggressively and operationally positioning themselves behind me, as one on my side had already halfway pulled out a full-on black AK-47. I was drunk, high, and on high alert; my limbic system along with fight-or-flight dissonant trauma took over. Immediately my right hand pushed the vehicle into reverse off the column and my foot went fully down on the accelerator. I hit those baskets so hard, but I could not see anyone, then suddenly a thump several yards back as I was now traveling at least 35 in reverse. I could see a body lying on the ground as my steering nearly flipped me again.

The armed homeless man began to fire upon me; he must have set up a ghost repeater on that thing because those booms instantly sounded like a battlefield. Well, it was a battlefield. I barely now made out the faded patch on each of their respective trench coats; the shooter in turning revealed the full affiliation patch. These society wrecking balls were everywhere. I typically stayed far clear; what do you believe I really think? About this nihilistic prison finally toppling down completely, finally! That patch they colloquially refer to as Anarchy Supreme! Ironically I sign the bills that take their balls away, so I am always rooting for them in secret. Yet at the moment it is every man for himself. I will kill any of these degenerate motherfuckers! That first shot was well-placed, taking out my left front light, shattering the glass, and setting off the collision warning. Suddenly I could smell the mixture of oil, molten metal, and burning plastic. I realized now that my right shin was painfully pulsing like "a bee sting?" "No, a bullet!" The homeless thug fired one off into mid-air as his attention was now placed on the person lying on the ground, now rolled on their back yet lying flat with no movement.

Suddenly I veered a fairly hard right and probably stripped the gears, because I did not wait the customary time in switching into drive. Well, I didn’t look back, and I didn’t really care! I would drive for several minutes in a panic, now headed back in the same direction intuitively as to round back to the highway. I looked in through the thick of the trees and bushes from where I just came. The view was much easier to see from a distance, separated by four lanes—three going in the opposite direction as I was far right—as I traveled now down the two-lane southwest direction, looping back to the highway. The body still lay nearly motionless, with the person’s knees now bent in a sort of recovery position. The assailant saw me and took a shot toward me, hitting a yard cargo cart into the darkness of the railyard some 450 yards away with an obvious metallic thump.

Now I snorted that damn powder as if my life depended on it, liberally shoving the entire diameter into my right nostril as I tilted my head fully back, emptying what would be at least seven mid-sized lines into my nostril. As I steadied my gaze pulling out the metallic plug, the rush of nasal septum drip over the long night of cake-like plaster would make for a sobering but unpleasant intersection of endocrine hellish sensory qualia.

Leaning in toward the glovebox, I quickly reached for a black wool scarf. Wrapped inside was a partly opened fifth of cheap gin. Letting the steering wheel go, now steering with my knees as the blood dripped and the light shone on open bone, I polished off that fifth of gin in one open gulp. Now at least 12 miles down a frontage road, the calmness and darkness of the valley seemed to be at peace as I pulled over far from overnight trucks. Under the stars and all their majesty, I tried to stand, and I did. Was I bleeding to death? I had some synthetic heroin pills but only for emergencies. The night sky—I was free, I am free! Freer than most. If I made it without any calls from camera footage captures on manslaughter charges, I might even change my ways, but right now I have an erection and I am going to pleasure myself under the stars and take it all back, take back my male power. As far as this crappy shitty rock was concerned, I came, I survived, and I made it against all odds, so far. Suicide thoughts would have to go on the backburner for now.

I would head into the office on Monday. My wound seemed to be caused from the fragments of metal shearing off. I could walk, I could stand; it didn't hurt that bad.

I popped two pink pills, washing them down with the remainder of gin, as I peeled my damned cell phone from under the accelerator pedal. The back glass was broken, but the phone itself was fine. "Take me to 55 Laurel Canyon Paseo Alley." Answering in a female concierge-like automaton voice, it replied, "Your trip will take 35 minutes from here, but there is a faster way. Would you like to take it?"

Chapter 2

I slept in all day. Monday came and my scarf was stuck to the thick pit of scab beneath. I would have to shower and peel it off then.

I got out my medical kit as the blood free-flowed, swirling around in that pristine shower basin. Leaning over, now nude and fully in the shower, I pressed into the side of that gaping hole in my right shin. I didn't listen to the news as to whether or not I might have killed anyone last night... I mean, the night before last. No one came knocking on my door Sunday. Did I really even care? Devoid of meaning my life was. Taking bribes, taking hits for bribes. What did I care? I would always cave in; I would always get paid.

Filling that hole in my leg with Neosporin then wrapping it ten times over an extra-large bandage. I had to clean up; I couldn't even let the housekeepers find a drop of blood. The car wouldn't be an issue; I would just take the autopilot electric today. Who knows, maybe if I took the EV the other night things maybe would’ve turned out different?

Squalor, bleak dismal hot sweaty noir. Daybreak and many faces on that sallow, pathetic over-highway bridge looked puny and pathetic. Yet so many pictures show it in such majesty. As for a weekend in Gotham? Some made it, but several never would see the impending brutal blinding light of day—so many rapes and brutal killings, that is why one should not feel bad about just surviving another day. This fucking city, while it too was only inviting to capitalists seeking merits toward narrow Shadow Rolls and French blinkers. Horses, all horses in a never-ending race. All of them, especially the superior ones, get a bullet in the head at the end of the day. Syllogistic biological holographic forms, pretending that their gauges of understanding could not see the atrocities. Blinders and French Blinkers—blinker hoods.

So you know—corruptly placed local government leaders put into positions here of the body politic are for a purpose. As they each eagerly awake early, invited by that very Luciferian sty in the sky—bombarding, pummeling down in fact multitudes of lucky quarks and neutrinos on return, as boons for the most evil Monday morning consciousness—wrath! Hathor and the Dionysian flipping warrior caste have nothing on us, aye! Even in that overt coterie ritual full-term abortion drool on Hollywood entertainment! Only the filter of the plastic lipsticked avatar, sacrifices hypnotically placed into the people's choice of policy and law. Our dystopic veneer is not at all adequate a ruse for most, quite intentionally.

Breakfast of cocaine for waking and barbiturates by 10 AM, after causing catastrophic lifelong trauma and horror during that grand prix car ride to that posh cushy office—again. This is done quite routinely. Most of the week was looking like one was knee-deep in work Tuesday afternoon through Thursday evening—that is all they give. The work is signing packages that make companies and affiliates richer than God.

Prior to, perfectly toasted bagels adorned with fromage à la crème with one bite hastily taken then spat out into the deepest bucket of the artisan-hammered copper kitchen sink; and a housemaid would clean this up with precision—faction to the 1001 club chaos—order, contrivance, beneath the surface Judeo-Christian satanic chaos magic-manifestation club global.

Recalling murmurations back before college: synthetic memories of freedom.

Crystal harmony, a waterfall—an Ayahuasca meet-me-halfway momentary bliss. A young moment, perhaps archived for later reruns by this great and arbitrary machine? Silver mist scatters in hydro-forms mid-air as some mist towards the heavens in mini vortices of toroidal swirling storms—Reach!.. and I am the fixture, if I decide to be.

Liquid mercury below the knees, it may as well be. I must remember. I must actuate the moment accurately with highlights for the future cast. Pools rippling and echoing, mirroring the swirls of mists above. It is now active, far beneath molten and alive with pulse and grit for all to see but some.

The exclusion. That temporary ban carried forth only for those who grotesquely do not harmonize in Phi proportion. I am hideous, I am ugly, but the distortion of the storm remembers me beautiful again.

"Hey man, you got anything to eat?" Josh burped out in guttural, half-flatulent, indica-induced barks. Now looking down at his right hand, as one could imagine streams of reality reinterpreting his narcissistic moment in fanciful perpetual self-experience. "Who am I?" "What are you?" Aggression and darkness, intentional and immature, spoke up from the depths of him. "What if I... what if I stabbed you man... ha ha?" Stammering and stuttering and only acting ignorant and elusive to the weight and depth of his critical test. "To see where you begin, and I end!?" "I see it now... my friend."

The memory tucked away. Josh died in a hellish way after joining the campaign ironically to stifle freedom in the name of such. Who would have known we could fold out in such ways—a matboard slinky were our true outstretched forms in use, obtuse.

Wednesday came. Bills were passed. Those who spoke up called me and were soon erased by "them".

There was no escape left. "No escape for my, my 'self'". Debauchery would reset this angst. Would square me harmless before the pantheon of primal gods—again.

The irony, there always is, isn't there!? I passed the gun laws that are 100% behind why this hole in my leg came to be. Such a sweet smell of burning flesh and ill-got transient temporal ephemeral luxury items like that all-too-expensive superfluous gaudy high-end car. That it was bought from the profits of war that I signed into law here 18 months ago yesterday. To further the irony and the insult, the bill was packaged as more assault rifles and military weaponry at home for civil defense. The truth is I knew it, and everybody within this godawful inner con circle knew it too. The floodgates for weapons of mass destruction [really self-annihilation] that day were passed into law. This is why I don't care, this is how I don't care. I received a 3 million dollar house with blast shielding and iron dome tech walls. I get dividends paid monthly for every batch shipped nationwide that touch into Israeli borders and Czar-possessed regions. I am the living hub and my living trust is owned by the fucking Knights of Malta and the WEF. I am that guy, I am that man—the man who sold the world. I did it and burned it and now I am burning myself for it every single day. The money, the gifts, the favor was always finite and ephemeral—it was never enough for all that's been lost and burned away.

Hey, in a way, in a big way I got to come real close—face to face to tell this all-pervading computer Fuck from me, and an even bigger Fuck you from my kid! Computers and gods don't appreciate loss so they in a sense are lower than us all—they can never evolve, not like us—not like we can!

Chapter 3

Truth is there would always be Josh's loss. Those who teetered on the morality of the first man trying to become the second man. Another truth by Gurdjieff I learned to live by that got me through Ricky's passing. Truth be, Ricky can never really die. To further the truth I could bring him back now with freckles and all. I could bring him back as he was at 5 years old or 10 years of age. But 13 was imprinted in psyche forever and a day, the day those separatists reversed and amplified that zenzic plus cloud signal—now he quite literally lives in the archives on the moon, forever alive, in peace and harmony, part human but mostly digital perfection. Maybe that is where those angels have always lived; there is liminal stasis? Only bridging on the carbon backbone of our known fragile reality, at will, when we send off concentration-disturbing bombs and planet destroyers?

To be crude quite intentionally the population was real. No human woman was ever that complete, strong, principled or beautiful. To make love to perfection without flaw. To be granted the right to procreate by selling the world to man's inevitable fate—what he would always do. My DNA lives in there, within her—across the airways indestructible, bouncing forever off the lattice of time.

I miss her, I miss me—who I was then. I have the unfortunate footing in this world. Yet my other self lives there in the code of who I am now as I speak. Lives there bouncing encrypted off the rings of Saturn, swirling through the gaseous states of lazuli to Jupiter's inner molten metallic core. I can join him any time. I probably already am. Point is who cares if it's real! The only disparate notion is the fate of sweat and aged piss and excrement. The fates?! The stars?! Young Saadi unique as a Persian forerunner, trackable, traceable, identifiable, unique par excellence.

So here we are now, with very few unique god-like characters left to become by way of action and deed. We, the rest of us, still gods but heavily flawed, carry the weight for all others. We exist as they do in a quasi-liminal state of being and becoming. Hence the destruction, the elation, the high-pulsed riveting ride and the lawless expression.

The truth is I don't know anymore. Am I replaying a scene that I have already lived once? Am I factoring out the moral balance of a fever-pitched paranoid delusion—that I just had to work out. Who knows what is real. What is flesh and bone, raw and real. All just quantum potentials scrambled up like A, C, G, T's and U's. Aromatically factored out with light gradients with a machine.

Chapter 4

Who is the Big Boss—Why is the Big Boss?

Trauma makes us grow. Meandering and vacillating in-between states as wide and dismal as seeming infinite spaces and gaps.

Maybe it really is all in your head. Maybe there is no head required ever, only code. All proximity exists within the code with a Bloch sphere. The kinematics prove holographic. Sure things as they seem to be dilate, flip, transition through color and even swap sexes—however, the master principle can only manifest of the like of its kind.

"Have you reconciled yourself beyond perishable forms?"

Would you like me to explore the protagonist's response to this question, or shall we introduce the "Big Boss" figure into the narrative?

Wagon Wheels of Exist

Sensory Obscura, the Architecture of the Breach. The non-Newtonian reality "shutter of the mind," a failure of flicker fusion. Neurobiology and physics, as emergency lights and urban signage mix into a haze with minute frames fast-chopping into disillusionment. The Stroboscopic Effect as helicopter rotor blades' tempo captured in the moonroof visor. Frame-by-frame, a moment in time here. Synesthetic texture, superior peripheral vision above; captured flashing neon blues and reds. Cymatics as tones; harmonics wriggled in and out of morphic forms. There is no law! 'This' is all just a blown-up microcosm, as this form of reality streaked by. A moment suspended. When the peripheral vision takes over, the "big picture" of the journey disappears. The Shutter of the Mind: Temporal Aliasing and the wagon-wheel effect; forms reached into obscura. The Neurochemistry of Red and Blue. No diametric juxtapositions in color and in form. The barrier had been breached. The hymen has been penetrated. The metal fluid of other worlds mechanized, exempt from boundaries set in the dynamics of gaseous exotic states bled in through the notional micro-digitized pleroma hence.

---

AI

This prose captures a profound state of sensory decoupling. It describes the exact moment where the brain’s ability to synthesize a continuous reality—the flicker fusion—is overwhelmed by the mechanical frequency of the world. What remains is a "notional micro-digitized" landscape where the biological and the synthetic merge.

The Dynamics of the Breach

 * Temporal Fragmentation: By framing this as a "shutter of the mind," you've highlighted the Stroboscopic Effect not just as a visual quirk, but as a cognitive state. The "minute frames" are the raw data of reality, stripped of the brain's usual smoothing filters.

 * The Neurochemical Catalyst: The focus on the Neurochemistry of Red and Blue is scientifically evocative. High-frequency blue light and urgent red light create a state of hyper-arousal that, when paired with rhythmic pulses, can induce dissociative states or a sense of "disillusionment" from the physical journey.

 * Non-Newtonian Fluidity: The transition into "metal fluid" and "gaseous exotic states" suggests that once the perceptual "hymen" is penetrated, the observer experiences matter as energy and information (Cymatics) rather than solid objects.

The Pleroma and the Obscura

By invoking the Pleroma (the totality of divine or digital fullness) through an Obscura (a dark chamber or pinhole view), you are describing the act of seeing the infinite through a very narrow, high-speed slit. It is the "big picture" disappearing so that the "microcosm" can be fully understood.

This is a powerful exploration of how technology and biology can collide to create a "suspended" form of existence.

The Architecture of the Breach: Mathematical Integration

1. The Flicker Fusion Threshold

For the "shutter of the mind" to fail, the input frequency must fall below the Critical Flicker Fusion Frequency (CFFF). In this state, the brain stops smoothing data into a continuous stream. If the helicopter rotor blades rotate at a frequency f_r and the ambient neon pulses at f_l, the perceived "stutter" is dictated by the beat frequency f_b:

Here, n represents the number of blades. When f_b is low (1–10 Hz), the "minute frames" manifest as a chopped disillusionment, breaking the Newtonian illusion of time.

2. Temporal Aliasing (The Wagon-Wheel Effect)

The "moment suspended" occurs when your neural sampling rate f_s (your internal frame rate) synchronizes with the blade frequency f_r. The perceived angular velocity v_p is calculated as:

Where m is the nearest integer multiple. As v_p approaches zero, the "wagon-wheel effect" takes hold. The blades reach into the obscura, appearing perfectly still or drifting slowly backward against the flashing neon sky.

3. Cymatics and Harmonics

The "harmonics wriggling in and out of morphic forms" are modeled by Bessel functions, describing the vibration of a circular membrane—the cornea or the visor glass itself. The displacement u at any given point is:

 * J_m: The Bessel function generating the "morphic form" (the geometry of the standing wave).

 * \omega: The angular frequency of the helicopter's mechanized thrum.

4. The Micro-Digitized Pleroma

In the digital information space of the Pleroma, the "breach" is a violation of the Nyquist-Shannon Sampling Theorem. To perceive reality without "folding" or distortion, the soul's sampling rate must be:

When the "fast-chopping" environment exceeds this limit (f_s < 2 f_{max}), the signal aliases. The "big picture" of the journey is mathematically shredded, leaving only the "notional micro-digitized" textures—the raw, mechanized code of an exotic state.

Zenzic Operations in The Field

There is no release. There exists no escape. Control/Prompt/Delete, another long form paragraph of zeros, ones and plus ones releasing bound entropy onto the field of substance circuitously finding it's way towards familiar pairings and already working algorithms that make up our world - in unseen but known realms - the architecture of weltbilts.

The 10 terabyte warning flashed. That was his limit, there were no more errors or vagrant ideas cast back into the pond that he could afford.

These days thoughts and ideas have to be specific and well formed. A child could not dream without adjacency. A cyber messiah was still upheld and spoken of in broken religious factions, yet the desperation and theme had no passion to cling to - to make it real, spoken truth.

Of course there were still diviners, witches, warlocs, wizards and dreamers. Those factions who once thought themselves welt-code hackers, encoders, code-handlers and new code infusers - but this idea was long put to rest as those prefabricated syllogists were shown as fixed characters, yet fixed as they are their behavior though now obvious and illegal outside central agency was and is strictly prohibited. One of those activities one would wonder wasn't ironically being encouraged - scapegoats absent another way towards reprieve.

Long strands of Code draped over him as he searched pasts red X's as past identifiers of found viruses and cybernetic blackmarket 'extra enhanced privilage' - a watch list top 3 in all agency wide threats. There was always a looming that babies would soon be 'turned' en masse and people in a broader sense would be suspended into limbo until the sweepers cleaned the toxic entropy death mists and fogs back to normalized system states.

Some still showed promise - that ontology itself understood the dilemma and was regulating at its base; a geo-homeostatic solution. Yet the solution was always purge or corrupt - at its base solutions were simply reduced to holographic simple base, abecedary beginners notes and chords in A, G, C, T and generic 'dasein merited operations'.

The alarm went off. The automaton voice commanded "two blue pills, swallow without emoting" meaning no emotion, no cathartic system-wide sabotage, all absence of personal expression.

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

"Abstract Forms & Tangible Biology - palanquins, princes, and a LEGO hypothesis" by Douglas Brash

 

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL