Prognosies: Stage III;
“ Join us in the spawning pool... ”
- Preluding your grafting into the collective corpus, we shall raise a celebration of earth-breaking magnitude! We die your hair transparent and strip you of your decency. Lust for us, as we too, expose ourselves, shedding our shells, plates and bio-drapes. Later we invite you to go skinny-dipping in the endless warm in the cavities of well lubricated fallen Earth.
As you become I the acid waters go woosh under our bare feet, merging tissue and purging last remnants of the human condition.
Wake: Trespasser, Psalm Zero (0)
¶ ¹ Hanged by light years of chain, the Universe lied in suspension, affixed, by the dynamics of the four dimensions. Immobile state, positioned to be preyed upon by interplannar monstrosities.
It came inside. Unbound, unruled by the constraints of spacetime. The perpetrator - a latent organism with a postponed birth, condemned to wander the seas of reality as a sightless larvae, traversing millions of would-be lightyears in a single walk cycle of it’s countless legs. Entrance of a Trespasser of pulverizing scale.
Such visitation should have spelled universal doom to all there is, but somehow, due to simplicity and permeability of governing laws of physics, no material particle was displaced, stolen, or otherwise mistreated. Despite of this, in it's interdimensional Wake, the Trespasser layed waste to many micro-sized universes locked in prisons of flesh and skull.
* * *
- Ref.: Mare Cognitum (2;2.1)
- Ref.; Corpus (II-IV; 56pg, 22)
Wake: Brain Ripper, Chapter One (1)
In the time of the breach, every data display device relayed an eviscerating message, something so perturbating and alien that it went straight through the veil of our primitive brains. Human perception could only wince and yelp as it lodged itself into our subconscious.
*In dreams, my black eyes squirm behind fleshy eyelids. Visions of uncertain past are running through my mind * <...> Our ignorance shattered in the coils of a vigorous violation those mere seconds brought.
*I think of the men and women canned in the International Space Station. Surrounded by traitorous display units, monitoring screens, gauges, indicators. All suddenly errupting, becoming vile carving instruments fit for sensory slaughter. *
I woke from the sterilizing nightmare drenched in sweat. Throbbing memory of a dream so devastating. I turned my face back to where I rose, my putrid dreaming chamber. My bed drenched in sweat and black electronic ink I unconsciously excreted.
* * *
Wake: Pathology, Chapter Two (2)
Mobile data emissions led us to a house of Bishops. Upon entering the sanctuary we were met with a most shameful display:
Clear plastic tubes showed into gaping mouths, recycled oxygen osmosis stewing inside the deflated lungs. Bloodshot eyes dry-aged by countless monitor displays. A news feed given a literal form, slow dripped in a most cruel, Pavlovian fashion. Orifices plugged with unholy rods - antenna receivers seeking for a fleeting hint of the Second Coming. Skin implanted with display monitors, cracked and oozing with electronic ink. Sucking on bleeding Liquid Crystalline materials, teeth stained with slick oily iridescence.
The ceaseless instinct to birth monstrosities of meat and of silicone taken beyond the pale. This sickening sight made us both wish all innovation was born hanged.
Out of focus tetanus-ridden injector stares back at us like some sort of hollow-point cyclops.
“We need to get out of here”
* * *
-- He, who resides in the void of nebulae, O Father, inflict us all with a sense of relief and spiritual nourishment. Come upon us once again, Jesus Christ / --
-- In the aftermath of the blessed event, our fragile self was ruined and wasted by he the nuclear blast of Truth. Now the only thing that grows in the rib cages of men are the flowers of repentance. In wake of Original Sin (II), the body is made forfeit, blessed to be perverted into the abyss of cold perfection. His holy nutrition now are now the incoming data feeds from mare infinitum.
And so His word begat syncretic allegiance of faith and technologie.
Wake: Punished Metal, Chapter (X)
Pilot assuming direct control over an unstoppable machine of tormented steel. Its fuselage would make you recoil. The flight-mask gripping his head ever tighter, improving the oxygen intake further. His breath in a direct route to the machines respiration pumps, oxygen scrubbers refreshing his alveoli.
Lashing coils of perdition licking his skin as jet fires bust open the sound barrier. A malevolent detestor dissecting the heavens in preparation for Trespasser’s dripping second coming. Black Machinery rains absolution from above.
(GOSS NET 1)
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