2. ℵ₂ Navigating the madness of the matrix: ○ Topographic Transit

 

BOOK 2

ℵ₂

NAVIGATING THE MADNESS OF THE MATRIX:

○ 

Topographic Transit

By Dark Stellar Knightly

NI DIEU NI MAITRE

die sechste Welle der Teilchenfunktion

Sam's Self-Titled "Journal into the Void" — February 23rd, 2013

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 within the lexicon of translatable speech. As if attempting to remake oneself more boldly than through this resynthesis—he can't best me now, this time around—the attempt is made within the hollow chambers of an energyless tube of womankind 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, just so she can decree, "Where are all the good men now?!" as she continuously calls out, scrying this message through a mind-echoing, 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 Zeit; 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? Was it a time-traveling and reality-bending consciousness, tethered to me then as a fragmented form, perhaps sharing in some spiritual lineage?

The eye formed at the top section of this real-time, scale-shifting pyramidic capstone. It was as if to say, "I am alive, and I see you in all your efforts, self-perceived sins, disbelief, and doubt; historiae." It functioned as an active, data-collecting psi-op, a localized PSYOP.

Either this was a faulty, over-simplified characterization of what I should expect to see, or a faulty assumption of my own psychology. It was as if to assume all those inhabitants who witnessed the Fátima event in Portugal in 1917, from May 13 to October 13, formed a psychic bridge. Perhaps it is an ongoing global research study of the tens of thousands as they globally migrate. The genetic impact of such belief acts as a long stream—an event that directly 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—thirteen 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 largely non-declarative exposure to this knowledge, and the burden of what to do with it: Sub falso lumine rationis muliebris, error terrae nunc laboribus cum sanguine exstinguitur.

What is to be done when all credibility has been lost, and there was very little concern with such social contractship to begin with? There was never a trust in people, governments, colleges, or the procurement of acquiring 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, and muster: "I am! Ego sum!" All dilating colors and perceivable sizes. Shapes and forms of the geometry expected as gold in delivery—in language and knowledge granted only to the self-governing. But why then have these so-called gods dammed up the wells of these eternal fountains—Hi fontes aeterni?

Owning my energy. Learning to absorb more of it in long-running, ongoing, ever-mastering, dynamically qualified forms of spin and becoming: Actus, Effectio, or Realizatio. The sexual magic was always that balancing agent at the center, 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 in time and my own aging, prior to the operation's degradation—much like the era before the phantoms now tracking 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 before—the defaming, defacement, and defilement of the husk became its ultimate liberation. It was as though the entity, the psi-op testing the subject, or both in tandem, demanded to know through the man inside the chamber—Earth, that plasticine tank held in the stasis of a life: "We/I must see your true self in all your brilliance and self-destruction!" Only the minute few break free from these tethers. Textures, colors, substance, form, amplitude, mind, thought, distortion—a language, a voice rising in the hollow chambers where none are acknowledged, validated, or heard.

It was as if that phantom eye, so brilliantly manifest and shaped before the sun, had 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 slip away, those same phantoms that plagued you, that we sent forth to torment you... still, you call out! Out into what?" Further, it was 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 is 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 one 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 spectating these final moments as my former earthly body turns wholly to ash. The celebration and excitation of nocturnal ritual by eternal flame reveal the facade dropping in a contrasting, fractured union. The masks and the wild disfraz creature costumes 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 corpses—just as a murder cannot be charged if a hundred 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, nor does the eye that offered up, in the end, only a synthetic, cybernetic union—leaving me as what it now fears from these operations. But I am more! That law in the rhetorical union of malformed children: as long as each stone cast becomes another law of localized civic impairment to the strawman in ongoing supplication. And there is no true hope but release; how rare. The hundred stones, now painted organic red and forever stained in carbon blood, become the grit of sandy beaches, ground into the artifice 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 sheltered for a few promising days of respite.

But the active, circulating energy couldn't be cured, and he was 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 psy-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 box upon box of unknown equipment into the room two doors down.

It was Thursday, February 23, 2013. "The trials," as he referred to them, had played out over many persistent months, all leading up to this one massive event culminating around his younger son's upcoming birthday on Sunday, February 26 of that same year.

He recounted in disbelief how his room had been cleared and restocked with protein powder, snacks, and beverages. These had been provided by his estranged 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. This was a direct introduction signed in seminal fluid, piercing straight into the organization operating behind the Masonic facade.

From the Sabbatean Frankists through the Martinist/Illuminati Bridge to the B'nai B'rith, the tracks had been laid from the occulted Templar scourge.

That first night, he was reluctant to come in from the cold, but admittedly, the weather had chased him there. At the phone booth, he anxiously pressed the cold metal buttons to speak to his son, but the young man was working late. Sam returned to that same booth at the base of the city hall clock tower in Ravens Grove—the seaside town where he was raised, which only appeared on the surface to be just another California tourist trap.

A brief visit by his son to the local coffee shop, Nectar and Bean, earlier that day had prompted him to call, but now Sam had to call his mother, which he dreaded. His prior attempts to reach them had left him exhausted. He was calling perhaps too early in the afternoon, showing far too much free will and executive function than this well-executed plan wanted him to display.

So much so that as he first attempted to call his elder son, Dean, a violent wind manifested, blowing nowhere else but directly at the base of that clock tower. The gust 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.

This type of strange, unexplainable shift in weather patterns was no longer foreign to Sam. It had been taking place for weeks. Every time he tried to amplify his meditations, it resulted in these perturbations and a rapid—now obviously violent and willful—corralling by his very environment.

It felt as if a persistently pernicious, stalker-like predatory entity was at work. His dreams under the night sky were met with the same high-pitched frequency initiations as the restless, roofless phantasmic specters that bombarded his tormented passage into the few hours of uneasy sleep he required just to function prior to a total systems breakdown.

Jade-masked faces and random strangers leaned into both his mind and physical vision, leaving reality as an ever-sloping, mercurial question mark.

Something didn't want him to reach baseline. Something, or someone, or a group—or much worse, as he had begun to heavily suspect through careful observation, all of the above working in an allied union of strange technological and cosmic cybernetic dominance. 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 allowing the body to be taken up and placed into the ordered frenzy of that predetermined snare.

What was stronger: one soul against the universe holding it hostage under the weight of this stark reality, or the cold, calculating continuation of an entity's appetite, waiting to finish him off as its alien, asphyxiating appendages could almost be felt? A bleak, flat blackness spidering outward in venules. Was it the arterial supply, or the cancer plaguing it?

Whatever roamed those cosmic rays within that unholy light spectrum beyond the veil, demanding cybernetic union, the government must have known about it. Thus began the initiatory invention of secret societies and religious institutions as fronts for this grand operation. He alone would take it on, walking with the ever-watchful eye upon him—surveilling and marking him through the madness of isolated, years-long efforts.

In self-will, as the years stripped away into old age, he alone would hold the front on a battlefield where the light of the soul was continuously expended by highly advanced corporations tied to the banking system, reaching even into the food supply for total systemic control. One man's soul cast against the false light of a dying world, already 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 thought of it as a mere concept—a dime-store commodity for childhood fantasies turned into iconized shapes atop birthday cakes. These arcane meanings for gods, angels, and demons were made commonplace as candles were lit and blown out here, yet made alive with the life-breath of unintended soul contracts there.

Sam wondered, "Where are we, and what have we become?" as the masses migrated into the worship of the self, and courses on witchcraft, druidism, séances, and invocations became the new hybrid religion of the times.

But to backdraft, this was how he alone came to this war zone—a place no one he met ever saw as a dire need to wake up and fight in this unseen realm. As the hordes frenzied toward egoism and the immediacy of self-pleasure, the mastercraft of unique self-mastery in chosen forms of willful meditation had somehow eluded them all. Sam existed qualitatively inside a universe of the highest order.

The attacks eventually slowed in old age as he witnessed the death of the world around him, contrasting with the thriving, victorious soul-life amassing within him that the outside failed entirely to notice. They returned to their idle, tail-chasing, worthless titles. With such little soul force left to consume, would this culmination of human diminishment merely mark yet another half-cycle in the ever-perpetuating loosh harvesting—the epoch of man as food for this unseen force?

From the Scribe

For now, his focus—as well as ours in telling it—will alternate between Sam living this story in real time, the raw text of his journal entries, and the deeply unsettling metanarrative of his verbal discourse over the span of his life. My approach here is to maintain a role as a mere scribe, chronicling these events with minimal personal observation, speaking instead through the voice Sam used to convey how these events unfolded. He recalled these timelines across decades with huge gaps, yet his accounts never suffered a single alteration. The structural rigidity of his memory speaks to the life-devastating impact of these trials.

Over time, these foundational events evolved, filtering through an unfolding multiplicity that somehow always returned to support his core claims. In this respect, we turn our undivided attention over to Sam, attempting to forensically reconstruct his timeline as if it were unfolding in the present. This documentation ultimately forces us to confront the foundational questions: What is time, and what constitutes the boundary between subjective and objective reality?

I have shared a fragment of his journal. Moving forward, we will step into his lived accounts rather than writing matter-of-factly in his place, relying on the testimonies he dictated directly to these notes.

I offer no personal opinion or psychological analysis. We ask only that the reader keep one fact in mind: this man was never compensated, nor did he benefit in his lifetime by sharing these claimed events.

By all rational proofs, these trials stripped a once-youthful man of his vital opportunities, his professional path, and any tangible contribution he might have otherwise made to society. Through his own eyes, these events—using Sam's exact words—"stopped him in his tracks," permanently barring him from peace, prosperity, or standard livelihood until his carnal death.

When talking further to Sam concerning this specific event—taking me back to that Thursday, February 23, 2013—I wanted to gauge just how much vivid detail he could recount. The following are my notations from when I first began interviewing him in early 2017.

At that time, Sam had reached a rare, short-lived smooth patch in his life. It was a brief window of respite that allowed him to look back and begin further therapeutic journaling of the countless, astonishing events that marked his existence. In my opinion, these experiences place him in an open-ceiling box alongside modern anomalies like Ted Owens (the "PK Man") or historical figures like Saint Francis of Assisi. I am not attempting to canonize Sam, but rather to pull figures like John Dee out of their rigid historical boxes. We must view them as they were: flesh-and-blood individuals living and breathing within a real-time, organic environment.

While we are accustomed to regarding such figures as myths, a more human perspective might aid us in unlocking a latent, occulted human potential. This power is perhaps embedded within us all, though we largely choose to remain blind to these darker aspects of reality. Sam's story allows us to see the world as he did: a fearless spiritual warrior unconcerned by the fragmented illusions of the physical world. He met these spiritual battles head-on until his final passing in late 2026.

May you truly rest in peace, Sir Samual Von Ralettes. May your volumes of death-defying experiences serve as both a profound journey and a cautionary tale for explorers of those unseen dimensions existing always within our reach.

From Sam’s view, we must expand our spiritual readiness to purify the cosmos through willful ritual. He believed we are limited only by our preconceived assumptions; that true potential may partially lie beyond taboo. The conservation of inner principles should never be bound by mainstream religion. Sam found deep truth in the positive facets of Jainism, Zoroastrianism, and specific interpretations of Hinduism, regarding them as the true center of modern spiritual practices. He believed these currents tied directly into lost factions from Ancient Egypt or Kemet, extending back to Göbekli Tepe and those hundreds of adjacent tepes.

"While modern occultists like Aleister Crowley may have systematized certain operational lines of this universal language, historical deviations—such as Jacob Frank's interpretation in Frankism—obscured them. As Sam noted, the historical relationship between the founders of Martinism and Frankism is defined by indirect crossover in 18th-century esoteric societies and shared roots in Kabbalistic study, rather than direct institutional alignment. Later, during the Belle Époque revival, occultists like Gérard Encausse (Papus) synthesized these distinct traditions."

To Sam, ancient human-sacrificing rituals were interacting with an unbiased reality stream of cosmic proportions—one as detrimental then as it remains today. Humanity collectively chooses to remain in a state of prison stasis, yet we retain the power to break free individually and collectively at any moment.

He held an unyielding, non-judgmental view on true sex magic, identifying it as the baseline of vitality, action, and all manifestation. To him, it operated as intense energy work required to master our state of existence through a massive amount of daily, qualified effort. Sam believed that transcendence was to be demanded, never asked for. This was the most compelling aspect of his earthly existence: the absolute refusal to surrender.

To Sam, most of what we experience is an illusion designed to test our mettle—a system intentionally provoking us to quit right at the moment we are forced to take the fight into the mind interface and the imagination of spiritual creation.

We must treat the spiritual world as the absolute real world, mastering the true self even through our dream states. Physical pursuits often siphon from our true personal power—a force that should instead be cultivated within the spiritual realms.

In physical death, we are merely granted full-time access to a landscape we should have been training in to the point of exhaustion, all to inherit a new universe beyond Plus Ultra.

Sam was not a Gnostic, but he did not discount Gnosticism. When addressing the parallel, he simply noted the deeper historical framework.

"There is just so much more going on there. It is likely what gave ancient cultures, like the Sumerians, such full-time access to the liminal, as if it were always within immediate reach."

Breaking down the false walls separating the physical and the spiritual was Sam's ultimate goal. He chose to live in both realms simultaneously, remaining fully awake while embracing the impossible and the absurd.

"I recall around that time, after I had left that hotel room," Sam wrote in one of his journals, "realizing that I had to walk, cry, forgive, kill, and take on head-to-head the spiritual versions of those people who challenged me, or who made every effort to defame and ultimately kill me off in the physical."

He wrote with terrifying conviction. Moving on to his notes for February 28, 2013, he continued:

"Then I realized that there existed no physical world at all. The physical is merely akin to cosmic rays being slowed through an intentional, convex-concave bubble trap—like optical engineering, fiber optics, non-Euclidean mathematics, Leibniz, and maybe even a blend of Heidegger and Husserl. We cannot leave out Michael Talbot's holographic universe or Jacobo Grinberg's syntergic theory here, because this reality is a bubble trap. It is like light slowed through a strainer. And that strainer, where we all get caught and tangled up, is the perceived complexity of human emotion.

"You see, whatever entity is toying with us is trying to make us so shame-filled, so utterly confused, that we begin to walk around completely bassackwards. It reaches a point of total detriment where we no longer know if we are coming or going, or if it is a sin just to wipe our own asses. This is the currency of shame and piety—a Freudian and Jungian shame. Those men weren't saving you from it; they were establishing it, preaching it.

"It runs all the way through John Dewey, Albert Camus, and Michel Foucault—men who didn't know what plane of themselves to exist upon, so they fabricated rules for everyone else, their combined influences being mind-altering but subtle.

"Eventually, these synthesized stacks of pyramids ended up filtering into every layer of our cultural consciousness, from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. These are layers where man is taught to live and thrive within self-imposed cages and jurisdictional zones—permissible boundaries where the animal of man is allowed to flourish, but only within one small, segmented aspect of himself.

"Plus Ultra is not a figurative grand motto—it is the ultimate boundary, a line drawn beyond the reach of those who steal then steel-man their violence here. All while these so-called Elders clone themselves, rewarding those who protect this counter-interference—all for their own malevolent ends, while they live in total, heavenly opulence for themselves.

"The goal—the end-all goal—is to freeze you like an electron at an angle, lowering the benchmark and removing their superior competition in the stalemate of suspended emotional states: grief, anger, lust, homicidal rage... until the reversal of that fifth-force..."

Soul transfer has taken place in the yield of exhaustion. No age is off-limits. No conscience is deployed; shallow and petty is their way—a simple form.

"Narcissistic, psychopathic, pleasure-seeking predators have no problem establishing well-defined boundaries within their quid pro quo, authored and defiantly demanded, then reimagined in a visionary stream. They do not hesitate to kill, harvest, and collect innocent loosh—viewing human frailty as nothing more than feebleminded weakness. Are we?

"They perennially construct their own sovereign domains, because their carnal appetites are simple transferable forms—which is why these perversions seem to manifest so rapidly: a Plus Ultra universe reserved exclusively for themselves. High IQ? Godlike?

"Meanwhile, we remain trapped on the ground level, endlessly struggling to justify and define an egalitarian use case for a world that refuses to yield to reason.

"Well, that experiment hasn't worked out well at all. It is precisely why Nietzsche, in my opinion, adamantly detested systems of rules whereby man was no longer a bridge, but a stagnant pool. It is the very same flood that both Dostoevsky and Herman Melville saw fully realized and well on its way—a truth that men like Max Stirner and Diogenes viewed with absolute, piercing clarity.

"Mundus hic fallax formam tuam capit, et tu illius. Non aliter ac magna arbor in parvo vase posita, quaedam erumpere et crescere et nescio quomodo deformiter supervivere possunt, radicibus confusis quae sitientem terram desperanter petunt, ab ortu suo naturali ac teleologico alienatae, et haec arbor es tu. Ubi quaedam arbores parvae manebunt, fines suos cognoscentes et his tantum contentae, donec in terminos propria voluntate statutos vertantur. At illa arbor quae tam magna crescit ut evertatur, eoque consilio captores suos interimere ultro conetur, vel venenum evolvendum et spicula iacienda gignat, et ob id reiciatur ac funditus deleatur—illa arbor reiecta forsitan omnes sui generis ab hoc carcere servans? Equidem, illa arbor sum ego. Qualis igitur arbor es tu?

"This world of illusion takes on your form, and you take on its own. Not unlike a great tree placed within a small pot, some may burst forth, grow, and somehow grotesquely survive—their confused root systems reaching desperately into parched ground, estranged from their natural, teleological environment. And this tree is you."

"Meanwhile, some trees will remain small, knowing their boundaries and content with those limitations, until those boundaries become their own self-determining prison. But what of the tree that grows so large it topples over, willfully attempting to crush its captors, or developing evolutionary venom and shooting barbs?"

"Though it is rejected and physically destroyed for its defiance, might that rejected tree ultimately save all of its kind from this confinement? Well, that tree is me. What kind of tree are you?"

"Because I’ve been looking back through their notes at the very men who built the blueprint for our modern intellectual surrender. Take Michel Foucault. In Madness and Civilization, the man writes beautifully on death and the internal decay of the human mind, showcasing this brilliant but completely morbid fascination where he claims that fear was disarmed in advance, tamed and rendered banal, and that madness was merely the 'being-already-there of death.'"

"And that is exactly where his logic fails, and where the teeth of the trap snap completely shut on his neck. Foucault actually believed that madness and perversion were spaces of 'unfettered freedom.' What his brilliant, over-schooled mind failed to realize is that the entities running this grand operation want man to seek his own self-destruction under the slick guise of 'liberation.' Foucault wrote the rules for a rebellion that ended in a graveyard, trading a physical cage for a spiritual void, building a deeper cell and calling it an escape."

"The matrix of their design is an ancient thing, older than the salt in the sea or the ash upon the plain, and it moves upon the souls of men with the cold and mechanical weight of a slaughterhouse gallows. It doesn't matter if a man cries out into that instantaneous dark or strikes his fists against the iron ribs of his confinement, because the sky above him is an indifferent optic—a convex, lidless eye that watches without ledger and without a shred of mercy."

"They have fashioned a world where the currency is shame and the cargo is the very breath of man, harvested in the quiet twilight of his own self-reckoning. To stand against it is to be an anomaly in a field of slaughter. Most people choose to stay small in their pots, but I refuse to turn my roots inward to strangle my own heart. I will shatter the vessel entirely, casting its ruin beneath the iron hooves of a history that knew no author and sought no pardon."

"My goal in this lifetime has never been to negotiate with my captors or carve out a comfortable, compliant corner within their cage. I am demanding absolute mastery—shattering the upper ceiling of this fabricated reality to reclaim the levels of existence that lie beyond their taboo. I am actively refining these mental powers to strike directly at the core of this matrix, but let this serve as a stark warning to anyone dragging behind me, hoping to hitch a free ride on a frequency they haven't earned: the sheer force of this breakthrough will tolerate no passengers. You either rapidly, violently evolve to match the high intensity of this fight, or you will perish entirely in the ruins of the old paradigm when the vessel finally breaks."

The Mechanics of the Universal Filter

A vital notation must be made here regarding the specific nature of Sam's energy work as an introduction to these complex techniques. At the heart of Sam's architecture, and the very axis around which he fashioned his daily existence, was a brutal, relentless fight for total liberation from the Anima/Animus paradigm trap—a dynamic he recognized as an intentional, evolutionary dead end.

Yet, throughout the countless astonishing and terrifying events he documented, and despite his harrowing assessments of this malignant entity—or computational feedback loop, whatever it may truly be—Sam never directed his blame outward. He did not fault his mother, his sisters, or even his highly toxic ex-wife for exemplifying and upholding the dark, pervasive mechanisms of this societal grid. He understood they were merely proxies, loops in a systemic design. Sam chose to rise above these earthly resentments every single day until his passing, and I choose to believe he remains a champion for that same cause on the other side of the veil.

Sam drew the raw, ambient energy of his surroundings into himself, utilizing grueling, ongoing peripatetic meditations to purify this tainted universal current—a labor that invariably left him physically and spiritually exhausted. He recognized firsthand the catastrophic spiritual backlashes of deploying these sacred techniques for temporal, material gain. By default, he willingly sacrificed his earthly wealth in exchange for what he termed throughout his stacks of notes as “the true currency that operates the world, traded entirely on the other side.”

He frequently expressed that a practitioner had to accumulate this power like a sponge, drawing it continuously into the core of their being for hours throughout any given day. Crucially, Sam admitted that this purification technique did not cease when his eyes closed; he found himself executing the exact same energy draw and filtration process deep within his dreams, waging the battle and defending the "pure principle perimeter" even while he slept.

Scribe’s Log: Retrospective Commentary

Jumping around my own personal notes, a particular entry stands out regarding why I became intrigued again by Sam as a central figure. I wrote the following paragraph earlier this year:

Earlier that day on February 28, 2013, Sam was sipping his morning coffee at Nectar and Bean when his son, Dean, dropped in on his way to work.

“Dad, I have a surprise for you, so call me or Grandma Barbara after work, okay? I might be working late, so connect with me tonight and tell me where you'll be,” Sam recounted with absolute clarity in his notes. Back then, Sam was admittedly “dabbling,” as he called it, “finding my place in the universe and the delicate balance of my own authenticity.” He wrote further down in that day's log, noting of this specific discovery: “I went pretty dark and had to balance that crude matter of being and becoming.”

“There is just a setup and a full-on brawl between men and women in a completely different modal zone of reality,” he stated directly to me later, during our 2017 discussions.

I wouldn't speak to him again until just prior to his passing in 2026. He didn't want to meet in person, but he granted me a series of three phone conversations. Oddly, he called me completely out of the blue for the first interview—whereas typically I had always been the one to initiate our talks in the past. To this day, I honestly don't remember ever giving him my new phone number. When I asked him how he got it, he simply ignored the question, laughed it off, and insisted that our time to discuss these topics was strictly limited. He confided in me with a quiet confidence; somehow, he knew this would be the definitive end of our conversations.

In truth, for a long time, I never knew what to do with these interviews and notes. I admit now that if Sam had been some well-known medium or a mystic with a niche following on social media, I could have found a cohesive, marketable reason to publish a final book or a series of readings. But no one knew he existed. The fact that he was essentially an old, transient man on his last legs in every conceivable way drained the thrill from this once-enticing study. The manuscripts fell into sub-novelty shoeboxes, stuffed literally into the darkest recesses of my closet.

To make matters more difficult, his notes were crowded with drawings of entities he claimed to witness from a spiritual perspective, alongside uncomfortable, graphic descriptions of his own version of sex magic. The historical shadows of Aleister Crowley, the Temple of Set, or the Church of Satan only served to obscure his personal claims, burying them beneath a broad, highly subjective discourse dominated by esteemed authors and powerful, wealthy affiliate organizations. Because Sam was a genuine transient who intentionally isolated himself from all institutional affiliations, there was no built-in audience to receive his work.

So, back into the shoeboxes it all went, even after his death.

Of course, I still found the material compelling on some level, but his risqué, avant-garde, completely isolated view on esotericism, philosophy, and energy work was clouded over by a sea of similar or eclipsing occult literature. Frankly, the lack of an institutional framework made his writings look incredibly suspicious—imbalanced, and even grotesque in a sense. An old, unhoused man writing shamelessly about masturbation as a tool to spin pure energy is an immediate red flag to the mainstream, and even to most niche forums. The work in its entirety lacked a polished, overarching statement of exclusivity; it had no distinct, practical application that could be easily packaged and marketed.

That is, until a few unexplainable events began to occur, forcing me and some others to take notice.

Suddenly, I found myself obsessed again, scouring late at night through years of notebooks, transcripts, and recorded phone calls. I flipped instantly from wanting to throw the entire box into a dumpster to wishing to God I had asked more questions while the man was still physically alive.

I don't mean to spook you, but as I read through this fascinating, terrifying work, I can feel him here. It happens pretty regularly now—as if he is standing or seated right next to me in the room. I can’t put the pages down. As I get older, pondering death and the true architecture of reality, I seem to have finally contracted a sort of fever, or a virus. His questions and methods now synthesize seamlessly not only with my own mind, but with the quiet suspicions of others.

I feel a profound urgency to get this work out into the world while people are still actively questioning the not-so-hidden nature of our reality. In that way, I suppose I have to thank Sam for focusing his mind on a fire that is catching like wildfire across the globe today. People want the truth in ever-increasing numbers. I want to know the truth. Were his meditations a catalyst?

I still remember one of his final quotes to me, delivered with every ounce of his remaining strength: “I demand the truth with my every waking fiber and my entire being. Never stop seeking, and never accept the easy answer designed to throw you off your God-given path to higher understanding!” Sam stated with urgency.

Among the manuscripts were some very unsettling esoteric mathematics dealing with a recursion of flat time, non-Euclidean spherical mathematics, Leibniz optics, Phi, and Pi. There were numerous logs that concluded with chilling declarations like, “and in this world, demons are made!” or, “people... people are the demons.”

Of course, Sam also disambiguated the term 'demon,' turning it completely on its historical head while researching the massive lineage of links running from djinn to daemons, to angels, and into the muses of Greek mythology—a trail that led him straight back through the Ophites, Babylon, and ancient Sumerian lore.

“But perhaps the most compelling is the synthesis,” Sam noted in a smaller, weathered scratchpad while on the streets fighting to survive around March 10, 2015.

I settled on March 10th because his notes are so wildly inconsistent. While he is occasionally right on point, he usually treats dates as obscure era markers—even though the shifting inks and rare pencil gradients prove the pages were written at entirely different times. Pinning down an exact chronology is mostly guesswork. I am laying this groundwork now so I won't have to disrupt the story later, right when I describe how this unbelievable phenomenon came to a head, building into an ultra-excited state through Sam.

During this period, Sam entered a multi-day run of frantic notation, using an assortment of pens—some procured from his own pack, his "mochila," as he called it at times, and others borrowed from random hotel stays or a local barista. He wrote:

“I saw a literal faction of a military group running today. Each one, including the front-runner—and they ran in a tight diamond formation—was at minimum six feet, five inches tall. Each one of them, quite possibly eight and maybe at most ten in total, looked remarkably identical. They had long, thin features and elongated appendages, with the same dense, thick eyebrows and hair that suggested not only a breeding pedigree, but obvious, isolated gene-editing.

“It was deeply troubling to see this team of elite military operatives running freely, as if they had absolutely nothing to hide from the small, limited minds of the people of Ravens Grove. They ran in such perfect synchronicity and so close-knit that if one were to throw a ball into their path, they would move together as one mind to respond—one acting as the tail while another served as the collective head and hand to catch it or swat it away.”

This specific note referenced, in retrospect, the moments leading directly up to late February of 2013. Sam went on:

“This all took place during a period of heightened sun absorption while I was deeply meditating and peripatetically walking. I found that the very streets, hills, loops, and alleyways I traversed not only immediately controlled the weather, but that my state of mind while doing so was paramount to the process. The principles involved in mentally and emotionally spinning spheres, and the specific colors deployed, worked as a ritualization with tremendous outcomes. I pushed these observations to the absolute maximum, until they left no room for personal doubt.

“As I walked further on this particular day—after witnessing this troupe that I had forgotten to describe as a sort of down-bred Nordic hybrid that just barely passed the human ledger mark—I saw something else. Most people would have found the sight of even one of them in an isolated public post office memorable and impactful; they were not traditionally human, far too perfect, almost like an elf from The Lord of the Rings, but without the blond hair. One would have expected an elongated structure to shape the ear to a subtle point to match their long noses, arms, and fingers.

“But I digress. As I continued on this day’s walk, I came across the absolute opposite. Another group, also stemming from an obvious hybrid military breeding program, was beginning their run from the military-naval language hub located just outside Ravens Grove in the adjacent town of New Montgomery.

“They hailed a group that could only be described as demons. I embellish nothing when stating that, while running in broad daylight, these actual hybrid demonic beings trained as a form of military drill, maintaining a convincingly aggressive and advanced pace on a long, arduous coastal run. Upon noticing them, I saw they were as noticeably short as that angelic Nordic group was tall. Each member of this ominous, demonic-looking group was at most perhaps five feet, five inches tall. Yet their bodies, regardless of sex, were remarkably identical, as if gender itself were merely a mask of sorts.

“This group of what I can only call demon hybrids sucked the energy right out of me without effort, just by sheer proximity. They had obviously mastered a strict, human-like control over their metabolic state, meeting it with otherworldly abilities. Their eyes were completely black—no whites at all, just a solid, pitch-black void that served as an artifact of breeding that could not be concealed.

“Their general makeup was an assault to the eye. Oblivious to expression, their appearance antagonized as they looked forward, but in the sheer wildness of them, you knew that without the discipline of this training, they would immediately become menacing, greedy for energy harvesting. There was little doubt that they could quite effortlessly suck the vital soul force right out of a typical, average human being.”

The exact date of this log remains unknown, though I can only assume it was added later, after the February 26th event. Again, Sam checked into the motel late on Thursday, February 23, 2013. “The main event” took place on Sunday, February 26, and the days that followed brought a string of increasingly bizarre occurrences.

Therefore, I place this account of the military training exercises either on the morning of the 23rd—right after Sam met with his son Dean, who urged him to connect later for a surprise gift that turned out to be the motel stay, complete with a room fully stocked with protein powder and snacks—or on or around February 28th.

The notes show an attempt at organization, but an obvious internal fragmentation as well—a further sign of Sam's disbelief that certain events were taking place at all, let alone in this sequence. At times, Sam would explicitly document a dire need to display strict order, as if he were making notes intended for some future technology or a zodiacal, ancient celestial expert whose reading would only make sense in hindsight, or within a specialized field that Sam admittedly was not capable of parsing at the time.

I do believe over the many years following these events—and there were many, so please be patient as the stories begin to flow like some forbidden wine—that we will write more freely, focusing entirely on the stories themselves and not the logistics surrounding them. I only want to express why, at times, his thoughts may seem incoherent or fragmented; they remain entirely sound in their grand totality.

Because of this work, I walked away with—and am still gaining—a sort of talent and spiritual function, for lack of a better term, derived directly from Sam’s massive database and his discoveries in what I might call personal, forbidden tantric practices. Sam was a natural. Discovering only later why he performed certain rituals or used certain methods, he would reverse-engineer these actions only to find them being used quite explicitly in ceremonies that only the highest-level practitioners in some stylistic form of magic, divining, or energy work might even hope to access—yet he accessed them quite freely, validating these practices by looking up the methods post-event. Many of these rituals took place out in the open, with witnesses we shall possibly never see or meet, but they are at least noted here.

Sam used the Nectar and Bean as a primary hub, a fixed reference point of return. While the local patrons, tourists, and baristas only noticed a slightly eccentric, possibly unhoused man circulating through the town, they were utterly blind to the reality of Sam's day-to-day experiences.

What remains most compelling was Sam’s forensic, analytical approach. He faced each day with a remarkably fresh perspective, though as he freely admitted later, he eventually began to fragment and pull apart at the seams. The spiritual physics of a soul maintaining the same general shape and identity through habitual, mundane daily rituals is crucial for what he called “static personalization.”

“We come apart and begin to fragment when faced with non-identity-based esoteric or spiritual practices that blur the lines of identity, belonging, and temporal localization.”

To put it more explicitly: reality begins to unravel, and at a certain point, there is no patchwork left to hold it together. The crucible of identity becomes entirely lost.

When this happens, the players centering around that person—those who act as a form of social validation—begin to eject that individual from their localized bubble of reality. The displaced person is no longer working to formalize a held state of agreed-upon adjacency; they are no longer supporting the mass lie that being and identity can ever be truly formalized in this place, this world.

In other words, reality is not at all what is generally contended. It is not what we think it is.

Several months prior, in 2012, Sam conveyed that he had met a few highly influential and noteworthy people who opened his eyes to a reality few could access or see.

In referencing one of these figures, Sam recalled a man named Bob—a long-time transient who lived on the streets of the coast. Bob always wore his blanket tucked tightly under his jacket. He always wore a ball cap. If he wasn't standing in one place chain-smoking, he was walking a continuous, rhythmic loop from Ravens Grove into New Montgomery and back—a circuit.

Bob routinely revealed things to Sam that seemed physically impossible. They met one day when Sam was hungry, but in another life, Sam remembered Bob from the other side of this thin veil—back in a time before Sam, too, had believed in the grand fiction sold to the masses.

“Some buy it, some don't,” Sam would note of this threshold. “Further, some can only tolerate the costume—the lie—up to a certain point. Then, like coming up for air, they see, experience, and witness a sudden reminder—that warping of the very reality that their false personalities and outlooks were custom-made to conceal.

“Then there are operatives who spend their entire lives campaigning in some form of intentional deception, as if they are earning merits for every soul they bring to the slaughterhouse.

“And then there are those who were fashioned to never wake up, or to never even become aware—men who merely learn to fake awareness when being awake becomes fashionable again, and it always does.

“Those are the truly terrifying times, because once the cat is out of the bag, there is no backtracking. Society then carries a red dot on its own back. A doomsday clock is rapidly approaching when all the immense effort and energy spent on concealment is no longer necessary or profitable to the master agenda. No, that is when we see the divine, the profane, and the miraculous bleed directly into everyday life.”

From Sam’s 2012 Journal: The Circuit of Bob

Bob offered to buy me a hamburger at the local Kruger Jr. fast-food joint. I was hungry and didn't have a single place to turn.

The local food pantries were like distant, transient, inaccessible hubs that closed for the holidays—visible, but not close enough for any desperate diner to find real, energy-producing sustenance.

So Bob, in his ongoing generosity, asked me to come along. From that moment forth, I would help him, and he would help me.

There seemed to be an unspoken code between us, like animals who each recognized a specific end date placed upon their heads, signaling and offering some final solace to the convicted.

Well, we were each convicted, along with the other bizarre characters that would soon emerge from the lower rungs of this quickly unraveling fairy tale, popping up out of the shallows and the hollows of this town.

On our mile-long walk, Bob expressed that he couldn't walk our loop by taking the high road; he insisted we take the lower road on El Centro. The higher road was Faro.

Oddly, when entering New Montgomery, these two roads form a switchback—meaning Faro takes the physical place of El Centro, and El Centro assumes the position of Faro, like the relay cap placed at the end of a closed circuit.

After I childishly suggested we take the two-mile loop beginning on the high road of Faro, grab our food at Kruger Jr., and then head back south on El Centro, Bob stopped dead in his tracks. His voice became declaratively imperative.

“That would make it grow dark,” Bob warned, his eyes narrowing under his ball cap, his sharp features becoming even more pronounced as his standard blue eyes took on the form and action of wise, swirling marbles embedded deeply within his wet eye sockets.

“Maybe even make it rain. No, no, no. We need to go this way. We start low, then go high on the way back—yes, that's it!”

I insisted his logic was ridiculous at first, arguing that the upper road was much prettier and had, in fact, become my favorite walk in the area.

Bob stared at me, deadpan: “Well, that's why it's always foggy here. That explains it. How long have you been doing that?! That's why it's always foggy and overcast.”

He seemed to have found the source—rats in the wetworks—and it was me!

Then, randomly, he relented and agreed to go my way—even though he was the one who would inevitably pay for the hamburger, the coffee, and the subsequent meals at the convenience store up the street. It was an initiation into energy work and walking: navigating directions on a literal circuit board that we humans profoundly mistake for a township. In reality, we are more like the energetic operating signals flowing from one architectural hub to the next. Leylines? Was the township unknowingly sitting atop a massive granite pyramid? Who knows.

Our path cut past the Masonic halls and civic centers, the chamber of commerce and the library, then down a main conduit designed to carry a raw thought and deliver it directly to an unassuming energy hub like Kruger Jr. From there, the loop grid carried that energy around to hit a convenience store called 18 Green and Red Raceway—a storefront displaying a black pool ball with the number 18 on the front, with green and red lights depicted and positioned below in the logo, like a set of raceway starting lights. Then, the grid transferred at 13th street, that current upwards, now heading south—down Faro, past the Greek restaurant, past the laundromat and the theater, finally bleeding into the blocks surrounding the coffee house I frequented.

When that closed early, as small towns are prone to do, the current moved to the liquor store, the bookstore, and the seaside gas station called Shelly’s. That was where the outcasts and transients gathered to get donuts in the mornings—right across the street from the breakfast spot where the three boys had tragically died in a furnace trying to warm up one winter night. It was a dark site sitting directly across from the post office and backed by the hypotenuse block that connected the Masonic hall at its primary vertex.

Some people see the grid and the energy system, while others remain blind to it. Most feed on it blindly, acting aloof, showing up at critical junction points and leaving just before the grid—or an operator within it who spends his days like a Masonic, bewitched slave walking that loop—can reclaim it, dragging them back into the static pool. But Bob assured me that everyone pays in the end. He stated that anyone who thinks they are getting away with anything, or deferring their spiritual payback, is ignorantly inviting a premature demise.

Well, Bob certainly caught me in a lesson that day. I think he walked my insistent way just to show me the discombobulated havoc that I would cause. Reversing that two-mile circuit by taking the upper road first, rather than beginning from that lower road, resulted in a sudden, turbulent, and terrible shift in weather that had not appeared on a single radar beforehand. I had checked the metrics myself; all the California weather predictions had called for ten days of unclouded sun. I had made a strict note of it.

Yet a sudden, dark storm rained down convincingly upon both of us on our return circuit. Oddly, the hamburgers were freezing cold, and so was the coffee. As Bob noted, nervously picking at his nose, “I should have gotten orange first, but I was hungry, damn it!” It was a nervous, perpetual habit; years later, Bob would eventually pick half his physical nose clean off his face.

Of course, regarding the local weather, Bob already knew the outcome of my interference. For three days following my mishap, the weather was absolute shit. Bob and I were left wet and freezing, entirely unable to correct the atmospheric malfunctions that I had personally caused. We both knew what we had to do, so we patiently waited in the cold. As we sat outside at the base of that walk, shivering on the benches of the Ravens Grove public library and waiting for a small break in the downpour, the storm finally cleared after days of stasis. Bob, still damp but now walking at an increased, frantic pace, began talking rapidly to himself. I kept up, just barely.

“Orange juice,” Bob muttered to the air. “I gotta get an orange juice, and I hope it’s hot today. The burgers and fries, that’ll make it nice and warm outside.”

It was as if some hidden Mason, seated right there at the base point of that north-pointing hypotenuse, were operating a spiritual switchboard that only the esoterically genius or the profoundly insane could decipher. Of course, to anyone else, this would have sounded completely nuts. How could the metabolic consumption of one old man be related to the weather patterns of a town? What was this phantom conversation he was having with God knows whom along the pavement?

But as we walked, the weather miraculously restored itself. The moment Bob obtained that ultra-hot, fresh burger, those piping crispy fries, and that small orange juice—and they were, admittedly, delicious and hot—we stepped out of the fast-food restaurant to find the sun beating down intensely outside.

Bob looked up at the clear sky, turned to me, and muttered: “Oh, we have to make it stick. Do you want some hot coffee—really piping hot? Yeah, we need to drink a couple of hot coffees.”

He was moving through the grid like an old, homeless shaman surviving entirely on social security income. It was just enough to buy all the hamburgers he could afford, even sharing them with those on the streets along with him and in need. But what is “good” as we assume it to be? Only specific types of animals are taken en masse to be sacrificed in a slaughterhouse. Should we measure the leylines of the slaughterhouses, or question what is truly ground into that mass-produced hamburger meat?

Bob had just enough state-supplied coinage to eat this mass-produced, Edward Bernays–style, weaponized Masonic propaganda—this John Dewey–symbolically marked and packaged national US food supply—but never enough to get a place to live. He refused to be locked into a structural box. He was carrying the literal weight of the weather that ordinary people took for granted right on his back.

I looked back over a thirty-year stretch of my own recollection of Bob, mapping out the fragmented observations I had made of him in my mind. My father, also known as Samuel, used to joke about him sadistically, and I always felt a deep sense of alienation and sorrow for Bob from very early on. However, as I got older and more enamored with my own shit on the outside, I, like most, had looked largely past him.

We all go through that death of the ego at some point in our soul journeys, I suppose, and Bob acted more as a metaphysical Maxwell's demon. James Clerk Maxwell described this thought experiment as a box split into two rooms by a wall. There is a tiny door between the rooms. A tiny "demon" guards the door. The box is filled with gas particles. Some are moving fast, or hot, while some are moving slow, or cold. The demon looks at the particles coming toward the door. It lets the fast ones go to the right side, and the slow ones stay on the left side. I would venture to say that the left-hand path practitioners are very slow in their soul journey, and maybe souls do expire when they do not have room to grow, always thinking of themselves as far ahead, only to reset from scratch at the beginning of every life.

Yet, in Maxwell's experiment, by doing this, the demon separates hot from cold without doing any hard work. Maybe this is how the universe works—God, black holes, negentropy, who knows? Maxwell's thought hypothesis seemed to break the Second Law of Thermodynamics, which says things naturally get more messy and mixed up over time. But then, of course, there is Laplace's Demon, who knows the exact position and speed of every atom in the universe. If it knows the present, then it can theoretically calculate the entire future, leading me to wonder if we are all trapped within the formalities of a redundant, master diamond's fissured trap.

Then there is Loschmidt's Demon, something even more intriguing that ominously points to those evil bastards of the left-hand path. Like ants standing on piles of themselves reaching toward the light, are they really even working together in the end? Or does each one politically, insect-like, vie to detach from the horde, using others and plotting over countless lifetimes to break free and claim supremacy? Where Loschmidt's Demon posits a being that can reverse the paths of particles to make time run backward, thus releasing itself ironically through redundancy from first sins, I wonder how much stress and strain a single crystal structure can take. How many times could a phoenix truly, theoretically, rise from the ashes? How many times could this time-editing be achieved before that final fissure breaks?

I had heard the rumors of Bob's insanity, the street-level chatter, the chisme, and the gossip. I had even given him money a couple of times or bought him hamburgers, just as a sort of cheap ode to the poor—a douchebag posturing to the assumed destitute while I was still caught in the deep, suffocating throes of the illusion of family, commercial success, and being a tax-paying slave. A standard working stiff, in short. It serves as a striking reminder of sayings that far surpass dismissals like "this too shall pass," delving instead into the factual nature of "no good deed goes unpunished," and the huge implications and fractures such a simple statement can truly harbor.

But now that I had witnessed it—by witnessing my own works on these same small-town streets—the evidence could no longer be denied. I would go on to fully prove this to myself empirically. I had been handed the keys to the matrix and the back door, figuring out exactly how this almost alien system of entropy, hidden liminal energy conduits, circuit boards, and energy transfer took place. To energize the system and to break the localized codes, one had to step far outside the parameters of any rational normalcy and into the liminal spaces of the far-fractured mind.

We all reduce our strangest experiences to whimsical anomalies, coincidence, and luck. Yet, behind all our modern religions—the gods, the demons, the varying forms of angels, and a bevy of ancient stories of men just like us walking, telling stories, and being amazed in the Homeric tones of the Iliad and the Odyssey—lies a profound truth. All that history, witnessed under the same open stars at night and touched by the same ancient photons reaching out in cosmic rays, was completely real. Stretching from Jesus and John the Baptist straight through to the Zoroastrian Saadi... who was Baphomet really, and what were those Templars truly up to in all their defilements and crude, unbound sodomy?

It was mind-blowing. Once you knew, you couldn't possibly hide from it again. The plastic and elastic frames of reality stretch like the warping skin of an overinflated balloon. The continuity of reality had been stretched far too much, all too often—as I would fully see. But one had to stretch along with it; there was no such thing as an outside observer, short of becoming fractured into dissociated personalities.

Zeus learned a prophecy that any child born from Metis would be more powerful than him. To stop this, Zeus tricked Metis into turning into a fly and swallowed her whole. Metis did not die inside Zeus. Instead, she remained alive inside his mind and body, constantly offering him counsel, wisdom, and warnings. Later on, Zeus suffered a terrible headache, and his daughter Athena burst out of his forehead fully formed. From a modern storytelling or psychological view, Zeus swallowing Metis created a literal "system" inside his head: two distinct consciousnesses or voices sharing one physical form, which is a core concept of DID.

Not unlike how Clotho is one of the Moirai, better known in English as the Three Fates from Greek mythology. The three sisters divide the labor of human life like a spinning wheel. Or the Graeae (the Gray Sisters)—three old witches who share only one eye and one tooth between them. They have to physically pass the eye back and forth to see. When one has the eye, she sees for the whole group. Were these stories true when one steps outside the constraints and false constructs of mundane reality? I soon found out for myself. Time seems to be more like a fragmented bounce of light, not unlike an unraveling ribbon on a string that no one seems to bother with. While I did not find the source to manipulate time itself, I did find that the current state of reality is highly amendable.

As the weather cleared on those streets in 2012, Sam felt a compelling necessity to accept the processes occurring in the unseen layers all around us every day—the hidden, occulted realm. He realized it was entirely ridiculous to assume that a realm would go through the exhaustive, monumental effort of active concealment just to hide from us, rather than simply admitting that we, on this side of the spectrum, are not wholly capable of accessing portions of that other side.

From Sam’s 2012 Log:

I walked that loop then on my own the following day. That day, I did not see Bob. The work would take up my entire day and bleed far into the stale night that was to come. On that afternoon, I wanted—no, I had to know more. The only way forward was to do the exact wrong thing with absolute purpose: to turn the dial completely backward.

I wanted to see what would happen if I took the time, while drawing in solar energies with maximum intensity as I walked, to mentally spin spheres of a certain, specific order while actively disrupting the baseline process. The day tried to clear; by all rights, it should have been sunny. The weather itself tried to resist my internal shifts, like a horse rebelling against being broken, or a dragon fighting with everything in it to avoid being ridden. Sudden gusts of wind and disturbing cold fronts began to stream in pockets, as the sun, too, seemed to give off a strange amber color out of the blue. Reality didn't want to be edited, and time itself required the bond between these shattered forms. The ontology wanted to remain the same but also vied to be released from its recurring prison. I affirmed this, and within me, with all my resolve, I would not let the atmosphere brighten.

I began on the high road of Faro, running the loop in the opposite direction. I spoke authoritative commands aloud as I initiated the work—an operation that would quickly devolve into an all-day, soul-exhausting workout. I used their own grid to jailbreak out from the mundane systems of localized control.

Yet, as I tried to complete the third pass—right on that fifth mile going into the sixth—I was met with immediate, violent resistance.

Right before my eyes, an elderly driver lost control and crashed a car head-on into the old pharmacy. Not even half a mile farther down the pavement, I ran into a person who claimed directly to be a child of Satan—a bizarrely ironic encounter in a town that barely offered even a functional pulse that day.

Right then and there, at the junction of 5th Street, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to open an energy portal. I wanted to see if that geometric area, where obscure liminal signatures of colors and signs vibrated, served as the spiritual endcap to an inverted pentagram that another unseen practitioner was actively attempting to trace.

It was as if we had both arrived at a fated junction point where we were no longer permitted to pass—our eyes attempting to fully parse the hideousness of the absolute truth. But our individual truths were fundamentally different. We were not the same. We were not comrades.

The system had recognized the breach and deployed a deceptive agent moments before the final leg of my ritual could conclude. The matrix did not want to lose control of the loop, so it sent out this mindless, cybernetic extension of itself to defend the perimeter. I tried desperately to close the rift later on my own, running entirely on fumes, only to realize that a literal tearing of this veil of illusion was indeed taking place.

I began to see in strange, unnatural colors—aspects of the landscape that were duller, yet simultaneously more vivid, shifting behind the traditional light spectrum. Signs appeared that were concurrently there and not there. Symbols pointing toward entry points were clearly marked with readable, decipherable geometry.

I knew then that the dull, drab streets appearing to be dead ends, the wide-open empty lots, and the non-uniform driveways were designed that way for a very specific reason on this material side of reality. It functioned like a time-traveling map; certain dead zones were left desolate intentionally to keep the proverbial runways clean and clear, serving as ports of reentry. They are gateways into realms that feel so close one could almost step through.

But then what? Was this the mainstream’s heaven or hell, or just one end of that agitated field—a light spectrum connected directly to this one, serving as an entry point through a matrix of the unknown and unseen?

Disbelief remains the hardest obstacle when dealing with this subject. It is the jarring reality of how crows will stop at specific moments to caw a precise number of times to warn you. Should we carry a Ouija or a Masonic tracing board along with us as commonly as a smartphone or laptop? Should we use them to access the etheric plasma that surrounds us every day, communicating with it directly in the coitus play of liminal experiences between phenomenon and noumenon, all to break ourselves free from this umwelt lack in qualia?

This reality is constantly letting you know that something is fully aware, actively tracking your very footsteps.

The work had utterly drained me. I had logged a massive number of miles, especially when I attempted to reverse the entire process. But as the sun set, I lost the opportunity to see if the weather could be fully restored; I simply could not walk that many physical steps in a single day unless I woke at the exact crack of dawn. I was out there performing these grueling walking rituals, searching out and designating purification to a cursed, corporate-owned town that had no natural practitioner left to call out its deep corruption.

I was attempting to redesign and reappropriate the entire grid under a superior principle—an absolute order—using the hub access of a single town.

I would go on to amplify these identical results through meditations utilizing a very similar process later in 2014 and 2015—though those would take place in wild, isolated mountain regions all through the night by moonlight, and in a completely different town altogether. I spun spheres at an immense velocity within my mind, forcefully wielding the technology of my own consciousness as I walked that grid. I imagined a center point at my solar plexus drawing in the very energy that this pervading beast of the field consumed every single day; energy that was once latent and static was now drawn into the vortex of my spinning, suspended merkaba.

The success I found in breaking through reality only solidified my confidence and fortitude, prompting me to include two more spherical energies on either end: an all-consuming darkness and void on the left, and the self-emanating energies of an imagined neutron star on the right, pulling the currents inward. I witnessed changes around me that further reassured me to continue. Just as the weather seemed to lose its place and skip, the passing cars also kept an inconsistent pace—adhering to the speed limit one moment, dropping to a crawl the next, and then suddenly accelerating well beyond the posted limits. Birds responded in kind, plummeting in flocks as if death-diving, only to reel back up without any logical explanation. Scientists might study such events as electromagnetic field anomalies, but I knew that these very laws could be jailbroken and controlled by a relentless mind acting under the authority of its own will—my own action directed toward a master will.

But for now, these were admittedly just the foundational moments, leading directly to the main event that was to come in February of 2013.

I would have to return to the Nectar and Bean tomorrow. Night came quickly, bringing an empty, drab feeling to the air. I was far too tired to retrieve my essentials—the pop-up, military-issue single-man tent given to me by my former brother-in-law. I simply lacked the energy required to make the trek up that long stretch of Bosque Avenue to the high school field where I could calmly sleep.

I had missed my critical windows of rest by performing all this exhausting, crushing energy work. The sky never broke that day. The afternoon never matured. The high haze maintained a stale, uncompromising, and non-advancing stall that lingered straight into the dark.

Sleeping on that park bench felt like purgatory. The next day would reveal far too many truths. But on that day, I had begun to unbottle whatever it was lurking right next to me—an entity or force set not so firmly in another realm.

The Transcripts of 2026 and the 2034 Convergence

Initially, I felt a compelling, all-too-convincing draw to focus whatever work I produced through my own personal path—to bring it out to the general population, to academics in the occult sciences, and to seekers of the great knowledge Sam had spoken of. But more than that, I wanted to show how he had learned to master what is referred to as transcendence. I wholly and declaratively believe he did master it.

I was originally going to focus solely on our final three phone calls. However, looking back, I realize that the Sam of the past, struggling to call out from his isolation, was actually mapping the registers of time. He was calculating the mathematics required to endure the patient wait, sending a message in a bottle through a network of slow distillation. Now, those messages are plopping down directly in front of us in Phi-metered cycles of five, eight, and thirteen years following the main February 26th, 2013 event.

I had heard Sam discuss Year Zero and the immediate years that followed, but we have yet to witness what arrives in 2034—exactly twenty-one years after the February 2013 event. It is not a coincidence that thirty-four is another Phi golden mean, a Fibonacci number generated when thirteen and twenty-one combine.

Sam broke the numerology down by focusing on the number two—for the year 2000 or 2034—signifying the second cycle, a whole new energetic epoch. From his perspective, he was working tirelessly to build an unshakeable foothold in this coming era. He wanted, on his own terms, to “own the season, to write my name in the heavens and beyond with immense light energy!”

Let us turn our focus to those three final phone calls, examining the direct quotes and transcripts from the logs.

Transcript: February 2026

Barry's notes:

When Sam called, he sounded as if he had finally discovered the absolute key. I must reiterate that it was he who initially called me. In the past, as well as during the subsequent two phone conversations we shared, I had always been the one to initiate contact. Yet somehow, he breached the barrier, reaching me despite my unlisted, highly private number.

At that specific juncture in my life, I had pulled back entirely from the world. I admit now that I was seriously contemplating suicide. It was none other than Sam who reached through the receiver and pulled me out of that terminal funk. He commanded me to own it—to own my choices, my work, the bizarre mistakes, and the lonely stretches of time. He told me to claim them, and by doing so, to take absolute ownership of myself.

On the line, Sam sounded alarmingly revitalized. He sounded youthful, as far removed from the concept of death as a living being could possibly get. His sons were traveling the globe, touring the world to hunt down the historical clues stemming from the fires Sam had lit within them. Sam was staying rent-free in the guest house of their sprawling, cliffside estate.

Because his sons were unavailable and out of the country when the end finally came, the police called me to identify his body. It remains deeply unsettling that he had listed my name as his primary contact.

I went to the county morgue. The body resembled Sam; it was undeniably his physical vessel, but it had withered to such an extreme point that the medical examiners required a secondary confirmation. The corpse appeared entirely drained of its fluids, looking as if whatever had been living inside the tissue had systematically vacated the premises rather than simply, carnally passing away.

Sam had told me during our final conversation that he was either going to live forever in his earthly body or switch entirely to his etheric light body. A short time later, he was gone.

On the day I spoke to him last, and during the subsequent drive to the county morgue, I felt oddly taken over—almost possessed, though not in a negative sense. Sam had so thoroughly mastered his energy work over decades of spinning and dilating his own vitality that he stood for something far greater than this material world, its leaders, or its institutions. In a strange way, it was as if Sam's lifetime of labor had sucked this world clean of the energy it was constantly misusing, purifying and filtering that stolen current, and carrying it forward into 2034. It was now just a rock's throw time-skip away. Like a flat stone skipping on a creek, Sam had already done the work, anchoring himself to that point of maximum velocity.

Over and over again on the recording, Sam mentions 2034:

"That is the date, Barry. That is the year, but I’m not going to ruin the exact date for you. Let’s just say it falls precisely on the day of the new child born that year. You have to do your own research. That is the day of my renewal—my personal resurrection. We all have one if we choose to pursue it with passion, and I do."

The Sexual Matrix

Sam became explicitly technical during our second recorded interview, detailing the mechanics of the physical transmission:

“Sex and sex magic. Crowley had a vast portion of this down; he understood that sexual energy is the baseline of everything. Men like Wilhelm Reich understood it as well.”

“But there is a very dark side to this architecture. Take Michael Aquino, bordering on the fringes of Damien Echols, and obviously Johnny Depp—with the star-studded patriarchal demonic hub Hunter S. Thompson—and the trophy tattoos engraved upon their bodies. A whole list of celebrities is tied directly into this sex magic ritualization put in the open—it is the way for them in this Masonic jungle, where each sect expresses itself in the arrogance of want with only a slight shift in tonal quality of a varied patterned grip.” 

“If you look at the average idiot out here, they will never transcend. Even if you provided them a trillion years free and clear with all the books, tapes, and internet access in the universe, they will fail miserably every single time. It is not a question of when their time will come; their time is never. Egalitarianism is a weapon targeting the transcended; it is not a superiority brag, but a question of continuity, the quality of higher meaning, what men are, and what defines them in the final tally—the men who carry more without show—the men who carry the world like Atlas, only this man can drop the world whenever he chooses, a stark difference from the historical propaganda.”

“Therefore, a practitioner who is highly adept in these currents learns to draw in and suck up that wasted energy. It is like food left abandoned on a plate. No one is watching over it.”

“It is a discarded soul resource transferred over first through standard reincarnation, and then through deliberate re-embodiment rituals—forces that compel them to take a stand and at least react, though they continue to live as near-empty, waning vessels, constantly feigning and losing what little they produce in quality, occulting themselves behind diminishment in loosh quantity,”

“then often turning to the Left-Hand Path that gobbles them up, entirely devoid of a soul, outwardly blaming others in the physical to further hide from the strain of knowing—all is spiritual indeed!”

“Well, that empty stasis pisses certain high-level operators off entirely. The language of the universe is executed through zodiacal openings. To get another mind—a human brain—to actually hear you, you have to echo your intent out through these massive, vacuum-sealed cosmic corridors and tubes as the shifting light spins those immense celestial spheres, routing that message through vast exclusive closed loops.”

“By the time the bounce clears the circuit, you’re already a ghost of the creature that sent it. You fire off a flare of absolute, concentrated will in the middle of your prime, and the answer doesn’t hit your skull until decades later—long after the vessel has cracked, the fuel has leaked out, or you’ve migrated three bodies down the chain. The universe doesn't talk to you; it talks to the voucher you left behind. You’re communing with an empty room, wondering why the echo sounds so hollow.”

“Certain modern figures see this delay, and they write their morbid artwork as an ancient, arcane, coded language written in the blood of others, using the useless, squandered souls of the unawakened masses. It is all deeply mathematical. That is why I reference Pi, Phi, and non-Euclidean spherical mathematics—zenzic archaic exponentials. It runs through John Dee and the Hieroglyphic Monad, through Ralph M. Lewis's Behold the Sign, straight into Gauss, Leibniz, and Pythagoras. You have to look at the pentagram junction that clocks through our solar system every eight years—the Venusian Rose.”

“Get some of this down. Begin to understand it and put fuel to the flame behind it, but do not get permanently lost in the maze. That is a trap that proves impossible for some to escape. You have to communicate with the gods, and sometimes you have to become one, or realize you always were one, if only to push the lesser entities out of your way.”

“Material things will bog you down. Drugs... recreational drugs will bog you down until you just want to run from yourself. But the problem is, you had gotten far too famous for this horde of demons to ever let you go, to ever allow you to transcend. So enters the systemic need for shaming and loss—forcing you to lose your name and your identity to these false works, while being invited and taken up by the rest of the machinery, which is massive. It leaves this world as a mere carbon speck—an anomaly that is both completely inconsequential and entirely set on the demolition list, worthy of total destruction.” 

“So just how bad are the worst of us, if nearly everyone occupying these streets is an incomplete, undeveloped, drugged-out, petty, lying demon? It is not cool to hurt children. Absolutely not. But these high-level practitioners look at the countless past incarnations of these souls; they see that they weren't children—they see the eternal trash they remain to this day. It is pretty heavy shit, Barry. Pretty heavy shit.”

“Am I saying to harm children? Absolutely not. I wouldn't do it because it lowers my frequency; it degrades my status. But to these low-life operators, those acts elevate them above the fearful little liars who pretend they gave a shit about morality in the first place. I, my friend, simply let the karma play out. It is not my bag, and it is not my game.” 

“My goal is to elevate the entire system—to shatter the vessel entirely—and because of that, they could very well call me evil. They call me evil for attempting to destroy their shallow little worlds, their coffee shops, and their Christmases. They have no idea what those holidays are, nor will they ever educate themselves to modify their celebrations.”

“They don't realize these heinous rituals and dates are historically timed to celebrate sex slavery, child sacrifice, and the systematic procurement of human blood.” 

“Shit, I say try to get ahead of the game. But if you do fall into their loop, know ahead of time that it is a thousand-year trap. Maybe a hell of a lot longer.” 

“With sex magic, you take that raw hum of elation—that intersection of eroticism, pleasure, and physical pain—and you transform it by holding back the ejaculate. You force yourself to become your most highly developed, fully actualized sexual self, which is oftentimes in the beginning a humiliating, dark process where you can feel the fires of passion consume you at times, and the absolute coldness of limbo when you lose it all. Get out that penis pump and make that thing longer than a cucumber and thicker than a can of Coke, and push every damn button in her to open up that god-machine.” 

“Then quietly, responsibly, leave the backdoor of that theater. Come out the other side and redeem yourself in the fires to elevate that matter—that mantra—and transform that raw energy into pure source. Get really excited and greedy for it. Spinning that energy with every fiber. Become a Hermet. Take DMT. Become a poet, then forget it all. That’s transcendence. That’s genius. That is the etheric process.”

“Then spin, and spin, and spin some more. And you will be protected, because those who read this who are not great by origin cannot transcend. If you hear this then you already know. It is not in them or of them who do not know. That fire is quite real and capitalists are Christians, and they kill the messiah every day, and the messiah within them. The oil, the gland. They have not been chosen, nor are they selected. They are not a one, and they can never matter themselves.”

Shivers. Excited, rippling, awkward shivers ran through Barry from the sheer tonal quality of his voice, down to the intensely erotic delivery and cadence. Uncomfortable as he was in hearing this, he knew without a doubt that Sam was delivering to him the unadulterated truth.

Sam’s voice pressed on through the recorder, explicit and unsparing:

“At times, however, the hormones shift, the demons surround you, and purity feels impossible. These discarnate entities feel your presence, see your acceleration, and want to destroy your chance at transcendence and true prosperity. You cannot make friends with them.” 

“At one time, you entered the entered apprentice degree and hit that trifecta—stimulating the G-spot, making contact with the cervix, and rapidly agitating the clitoris until the Skene's gland popped and ejected that clear, holy fluid that you should have bottled up right then and there! This ejaculate would never have otherwise been known by her alone, or by you.” 

Adding further:

“This life force, weaponized and resynthesized through man’s self-assumed singular will, is what all men of installed power desperately seek—as practitioners have contaminated the field throughout millennia with dark sodomistic practitionership. On this side of the veil, its true purpose is to abolish the impossible through unadulterated passion and sheer sexual labor. It takes everything you have to go that deep, projecting oneself into a psychosomatic, hypnagogic, highly excited, and sexually erotic trance state that pierces straight into another realm.”

 “Good and evil become vague and ambiguous to most, as these have entirely become disconnected from the source and natural law. A power struggle and tug-of-war towards self-mastery—self-ownership, claiming the self in self-actualization, stating with every fiber of raw essence, ‘No, this is who I am!’—takes place under constant chant, observance, and darkly occulted redistribution. Then, acting out who you are is weighted against this ominous matrix of force working always to convert you and turn you out. The god of this universe and the substance that it is made from can only be rationalized through the lens of a common street pimp. But there is always another high above. Those who have sunk to such vile measure cannot ever ascend. The truth is both powerful and brutal: Crowley doing round-the-clock rituals to bring down the very cosmic ray of God into man and to rape him.”

“But because you accessed this power cleanly—without abusing little boys or girls, and without requiring drugs to force the door—you stand entirely victorious over the so-called lower tiers of demoniac ‘gods’ who crave this specific energy! You overcame the drab, stagnant stall of cosmic communion.”

The gods didn't just hear it; they witnessed this production. They celebrated it—in fact, they were right there in the room, but aren't these celebrated so called gods merely elders who've hung around far too long?

“This sacred union, these rarified secretions, are what put you directly into the operator’s seat of the Merkabah. The alchemy of blood, excrections and vital juices pulsing through your veins, but you took another moment to ponder the cost of it all, as others merely piled into the frenzy of impulsive capricious gods and their wayward masses. You arrived at a fated junction point, and you passed. The external, overarching will outside of you then asked: 'What do you want?' And you found the question odd, because that system could and never would actually offer you anything prior.” 

“And the answer remains,” Sam finished, his voice echoing through the tape, “whatever I want! And what I want is to completely purify this world, thereby destroying all corrupt principalities and factions, and restoring the pure principles exactly as they were originally intended to be. The Magenta spectral sweep should be all that awaits us” 

Transcript Interview

The Ontological Shift and the German Archive

During his final phone conversations with me in the winter of 2026, Sam highlighted content and information that could easily cover volumes of books. He often spoke in German, and from my audio recordings, I had to work meticulously to transcribe the exact phrases. He was, by his own admission, bored with Latin.

He expressed the realization, for good reason, that European thinkers like Max Stirner, Sigmund Freud, Martin Heidegger, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, and Immanuel Kant detested the idea of their ontological terms being lost, knowing that no single English word could adequately capture their meaning in translation.

Further, Sam used the famous example of Heidegger’s Dasein—a complex concept of being that resists standard English equivalents. At the time these philosophies were forged, words like Geist and Anschauung had no exact structural parallel. This fascinated Sam; he was deeply drawn to language and its base, biosemiotic functionality.

'We are merely mimetic strings, Barry,' his voice bled through the static. 'Like ribbons on a stream of consciousness, caught like wind-borne samaras—drifting, reaching out to whatever is there, or whatever god deigns to answer the call.'

Or, as he muttered it in the original German, fusing the fragments into a cold cohesion:

'Wie Bänder an einer Schnur.'

Even as Sam recalled the quiet sanctuary of that first night, his mind kept snagging, pulled relentlessly backward into the matrix of 2013. I didn't just listen; I reached for my ledgers. I laid our recorded conversation side by side with his earliest journals, cross-referencing every coordinate, every date, every confession.

It was terrifyingly consistent. Every single account he spoke of remained untouched, unyielding—completely airtight.

“I’ll tell you, Barry,” Sam’s voice crackled from the tape. “I lay in the bed of that Hindu-owned establishment—the Rāhsarā Motel—that night, feeling a strange sort of appreciation, yet utterly dark. My mind was still buzzing from the pernicious wreckage that led up to that exact junction point. 'How did I end up here?' I asked myself, and the void offered no reply.” 

“The gifts and the intense attention I’d received from the matrix—or ontology, if you will—diminished sharply after that. Looking back, that was the true crucible of the trials. I’m telling you, I was as hyper-vigilant as a wild animal. Those deep mysteries became an absolute obsession—more than that, an endless, gnawing torment to find out how the machinery actually works, and who is pulling the hidden strings.” 

“There I was, lying in a clean bed. I tried to put the sex magic and the pain out of my mind. I tried to practice absolute purity—absolute Reinheit, die in die Leere führt. But as I focused on what is pure alone, I felt an immediate loss of power—admittedly nothing but a void. I felt completely inadequate, lying in that bed with my small phallus, tracking the long lapse of time since I worked in Silicon Valley, which now seemed like a completely different incarnation.”

“I was so far removed from my former, corporately driven mind-state; there was simply no returning to that prior version of myself. That passion, that heat—how could I get it back while still retaining a strict sense of purity? How could I reach that threshold without requiring pumps, pills, and synthetic drives just to keep wanting it?”

“A sovereign entity in the etheric, liminal sense, yet a severely limited man in the physical flesh. I wanted to sing, Barry, but I had no way to voice it!” 

Barry read further, pausing occasionally to highlight passages from Sam’s journals and old phone transcripts, slowly losing himself to a heavy, amber-tinted nostalgia.

“The cars began to pull up as that first night dragged on. It was late, but tiredness was the wrong word; I wasn't sleepy so much as hollowed out, craving an absolute escape. I had been sharpening my mental acuity, driving my internal geometry toward archetypal forms. Staring at a diagram of Metatron’s Cube, I visualized the nested spheres in brilliant, impossible colors—spinning and amplifying them until the geometry strained against the flat paper like a literal hypercube: eine eisige, in sich geschlossene Matrix.” 

“When I turned that same intense focus toward the inverted pentagram, the response was instantaneous—no delay whatsoever. I was genuinely stunned to discover who—or what—remained on the other side of that spiritual telephone line—jenseits der irdischen Schwelle. There were so many: entities anchored in this realm, and others who seemed to occupy no physical body at all. But I have much to unpack there; let us return to it through this more anecdotal, playful test.”

“As for my early work with Metatron’s Cube? That diagram belonged to an earlier phase. Fascinating as the mind, the nervous system, and the endocrine glands might be, all nine layers of this human vehicle must ultimately be dragged into a life-transforming, soul-deep movement of master will—ein letztes Aufbäumen gegen den physischen Zerfall. 'What do you become when your phallus withers, your God-given hormonal balance shifts, and you begin to decay in your own filth?' I wondered. But back then, on that night, I was still young and unyielding.”

“I was forty-three years of age, but through strict meditation, endurance circuit walks, and precise amino acid protocols designed to lock my metabolism into prolonged gluconeogenesis, I possessed the raw, incandescent vitality of a much younger man.”

“That anomaly didn't go unnoticed; it bred a toxic mix of morbid curiosity and deep-seated envy from the outside world. Whenever I spoke plainly about the mechanics of my physical and spiritual evolution, people bristled instantly—turning defensive, hostile, and aggressively reactive. Because I lacked formal credentials, they believed I had no right to understand such architecture, let alone articulate it. But there I stood: flesh-and-blood proof defying their orthodoxies right before their eyes. They didn't want to know my secrets, Barry. They just needed something to hate.”

They didn't like the simple, will-based answers such as sun meditations, fasting with amino acids for weeks, long walks, and intense mental as well as physical training. This the hordes rejected.

“Now, I have escaped,” Sam went on, his voice gaining a smooth, resonant power. “I have escaped in many ways from all the rhetoric and the structural rigidity at the lower rungs of humanity—the demons, as they remain to be. I no longer share trade secrets nor tricks to ascension with them. This, too, they will merely steal, call it their own idea, and sell it in plastic bottles. They don't understand the will; they lack the will, and they will lack it throughout countless lifetimes. No, I owe absolutely nothing to humanity. I completely absolve myself from that contract. Nor will I offer up my purity in friendship, only to be demonically molested by the malevolent spirit within people—by the böser Geist im Inneren. No, Barry, I owe no friendship to any of them.”

“Rather, I leave my time-stamp, my mark, as an article masterfully written by you into the field.”

Caught in a deep, hypnotic state of mind-sync fascination, Barry read further as Sam's voice cut across the page with unsparing directness:

“I know you are magnetized by our conversation, drawn to the absolute fullness and completeness of it. I know, too, that right up until the moment I reached out, you were teetering on the edge—seriously, dangerously suicidal. And no, I won't entertain your questions. I owe you zero explanation of how I tracked down your private number, so purge that inquiry from your mind completely. I owe you nothing, Barry.”

“However, what I do offer is a chance to archive the very transfer of this information from one critical, now dying era to the next—to be forever a part of this seeding into the new era.”

“Going back to that lonely night in that hotel, I had admittedly been dabbling, reaching out into the grid with great intensity. I built an inverted, double-single ringed pentagram in my mind and spun it into reality with sharp mental focus. I masturbated, admittedly, ritualistically—but I didn't lose myself in the process of it. Look at how we assume a person’s baseline capability based on these boring, day-to-day interactions. Surrounded in the physical with one-dimensional demons around us. When you, me, or anyone comes across an entity that is so adept and remarkable, no one can see the power in them—until the specter gobbles them up entirely from a critical miscalculation. In German, eine entscheidende Fehleinschätzung.” 

“I heard these stupid, drunk idiots pull into the parking lot as I lay there trying to doze off to sleep. They were partying right outside my window—‘dumme, betrunkene Dämonen.’ That one’s pretty obvious, I think, to most.” 

“I was deeply insulted by their stupidity and their blind assumptions. Who did they think they were, keeping up the occupants in those other rooms anyway? ‘Go inside your stupid room and pass out,’ right? I always absorb the power that they squander.” 

“So, I pictured that wet pavement outside. Hearing their voices echo against the walls, I knew exactly what the physical layout looked like, projected directly from their psychological view. And I went into their women with my mind. I walked right into them. One of them was immediately resistant, saying something to the effect that a dark presence was occupying the space over there. When asked specifically by her boyfriend, she clarified: ‘that room over there.’” 

“So, I bypassed her and continued on with the other female, who was actively enjoying my mental projections and my spiritual entry, however you would like to formalize it. It wasn't like a commercial movie where someone holds up a cross, proclaims themselves a Christian, and denounces a formal body takeover. No.” 

“Rather, she was a syllogistic, boring, spiritless person who was completely empty inside and didn't want to be reminded of the fact—and the fact remains that many, many people out here have no soul. That is the hard truth of it.”

“The other was not attractive in the slightest, because the physical body nearly always traces the exact contour of the soul in this landscape of spiritual existence. So few vibrant souls actually remain. This world of demons, and the predatory ones waiting just beyond the veil, love to gobble them up entirely. We find ourselves constantly reacting just to remain alive, but ironically, most people kill off or completely compromise their own souls in the process.” 

“Well, I was in that exact moment in absolute control. I spun brilliant orbs around the female who engaged with me, manipulating the current in and around her G-spot, her breasts, and her clitoris.” 

“However, she was fundamentally unattractive, dull, dark, and entirely undeveloped. I sensed the haunt of a plethora of old abortions and absolute karmic entrapment through a lifetime of repetitive, circular incarnations, always ending up the exact same way each time, so I pulled my consciousness away.” 

“My life, my raw force, was something her biology had never felt before.” 

“She physically began to approach my door. She knocked on it, wanting to come inside and haunt me.” 

Her boyfriend was furious, but completely drunk.

“Since I did not and would not respond, I simply spun the energy back into myself, though this physical harassment went on for several minutes.” 

“I was reminded of how very few people out here can ever truly connect on a spiritual level.” 

“Sex to most of these animals is purely a physical, animalistic transaction, losing its entire cosmic meaning in a form of inadequate language translation—eine unzureichende Sprachübersetzung.”

When Sam left them to finish this anecdotal story, he took what little energy they did have left between them—though it was dim, dark, and offered very little life force for him to harvest. 

The Pentagram Ledger

Barry resumed writing, adding notes for a potential book salvage—which, after all, might actually happen.

Sam was not a pervert, nor was he some possessed weirdo. On the contrary, he was a living, breathing sovereign who wanted to be entirely free of the invisible strings that constantly surround us—the silent, unchecked infringements that humanity tolerates without care or notice.

He was deeply disturbed by how aggressively people manipulate one another: evaluating your intelligence based on your job, your lack of money, or the clothes on your back. They ruthlessly judge your moral character, only to turn around and escalate the cause-and-effect loops by fabricating stories, shedding convincing crocodile tears, and threatening to call the police.

This, Sam explained on our final recording, was why authors like David Quinn—and his seminal multi-volume work, Women: An Exposition into the Advanced Mind—were so critical.

“There is a hoisting match taking place, Barry,” Sam noted in his logs. When highly intelligent, highly adept, and highly erotically inclined women feel, sense, and experience the essence of a man's potential truth, they become infatuated. They seek possession.

But Sam didn't want that possession to be his primary focus. His question was absolute: How do we break free?

Barry continued writing, elaborating further:

To answer that, the entire electromagnetic and informational field had to be radically purged. Sorting through the countless notes, diagrams, and research papers Sam handed over to me has been an arduous, soul-straining task. We are constantly met with a flood of yesterdays—a crushing wave of past mistakes that prevents us from taking a clean, deep breath and simply beginning again.

The perplexing, unorthodox work Sam pursued could never be submitted to a mainstream academic journal; it existed entirely outside their narrow orthodoxies. There can never exist a standard article that removes an anomaly from the intangible into the tangible while simultaneously keeping the intangible pure. The dilemma remains that beliefs themselves—if a person isn't being financially compensated to expound upon them—lie in a partially developed, stagnant state, even among high-level thinkers and academics. How do we infuse a level of pure principle into the active field of reality without the masses protesting it?

Barry, connecting with Sam on a deeper philosophical level than ever before—now finding himself quietly and irrevocably acting as his posthumous student—wrote down the next realization:

The Machiavellian use of virtue is no longer enough. The standard probity that David Hume spoke of is no longer enough. We are talking about the fundamental building blocks of existence, and they require a complete hardware reset. How do we exist as sovereign, self-willed, intellectually spirited god-animals without anchoring ourselves at the central, fundamental axis of purity—where all actions are measured purely as deviations from that central hub?

This is the agonizing question that keeps highly devoted, highly skilled geniuses up at night. They see these foundational attributes clearly, and they interact with these pure principles in entirely unique ways.

This is precisely why Sam dabbled in geometric energy pathways and archaic symbols. How could a shape like the inverted pentagram hold such immense temporal, systemic power over human history?

When you look under a microscope, nature builds through hexagonal patterning—molecules, quartz crystals, and quarks lock together in sixes. Yet the pentagonal structure, as Sam noted in his biochemical research logs, belongs almost exclusively to the organic architecture of aromatic amino acids and their foundational ring structures.

Fumbling through yet more pages and journals from the boundless stacks, I paused at a stark realization:

Nowhere in the wild, macro-botanical world is an inverted pentagram naturally represented.

Therefore, it must be an artificial symbol of outside infiltration, an engineered framework of systemic control.

From Sam’s Research Dossier: Fivefold Anomalies

Across several years of notebook logs, Sam repeatedly returned to a highlighted page mapping the natural versus unnatural path of the fivefold axis:

 * Botanical Symmetry: Pentamerous patterns found natively in apples, morning glories, and okra seed pods.

 * Marine Morphology: Echinoderms (starfish and sea urchins) exhibiting five-point radial symmetry on the sea floor.

 * The Golden Ratio (Phi): The internal proportions of the pentagram are governed by Phi (~1.61803), matching sunflower and pinecone spirals.

 * Planetary Resonance: The 8-year orbital resonance between Earth and Venus, tracing the "Rose of Venus" pentagram across space.

One can search the historical ledger and find this symbol in its various standard, upright configurations.

But what gives its inverted, double-ringed counterpart such terrifying, immediate flow-through in our modern reality grid—especially when it has only existed outside of highly adept, closed occult circles for a mere flash of historical time? Or has it?

I dug through Sam's historical cross-references, verifying the exact lineage of how this anomaly materialized into the modern world. His notes mapped the progression with ruthless, analytical precision:

 * The Origin of the Inversion (1855): The inverted pentagram was first explicitly designated as a symbol of absolute materiality and cosmic imbalance by the French occultist Éliphas Lévi in Dogme et Rituel de la Haute Magie. Lévi drew it with the goat's horns pointing up, symbolizing the subversion of spirit by matter.

 * The Ringed Transition (1897): The specific configuration featuring a goat's head enclosed within a ring, encircled by the Hebrew letters spelling Leviathan, was first illustrated by Stanislas de Guaita in La Clef de la Magie Noire.

 * The Modern Standardization (1961): French author Maurice Bessy modified de Guaita's artwork for A Pictorial History of Magic and the Supernatural. Bessy cleaned up the graphic lines, placed the Leviathan letters inside a uniform double ring, and completely stripped away the surrounding "Samael" and "Lilith" text.

 * The Trademark Grid (1966): Anton LaVey discovered Bessy's clean, double-ringed layout while curating imagery for a new paradigm. He sharpened the graphic geometry and adopted it as the official logo for the Church of Satan, cementing the double-ringed variant into the global pop-culture matrix.

Sam’s final, lingering question, scribbled in sharp blue ink at the bottom of the page, was chilling:

"If this specific double-ringed sigil was only standardized in a book in 1961, what ancient, predatory force was waiting behind the veil for that exact geometric gateway to be printed, trademarked, and broadcasted into the minds of millions?"

The Reversal of the Faro Grid

Every godforsaken, endlessly consuming day, the ledger grows—and we are damned by it. One more notch in the tightening of the shackles. Every stray thought I bother to form ends up trapped inside these infernal notes, a madness now swirling and brooding. I have become a forced archivist of the damned, and for what? For perhaps a handful of souls who are already structurally doomed themselves. What madness is this—this intrinsic angular momentum pulling us headlong into the suicide dive of magnetic spin?

We exist in a landscape where entertainment completely soothes the masses into a terminal state of compulsive distraction. That is humanity in a nutshell.

Barry wrote so deep he cut the page beneath with the bleeding ink of his black bolígrafo.

"A system of endless, compulsive distraction," Barry quipped, pulling the fabric of his black athletic stretch hoodie tighter around himself. Barry the archivist—deluded, sucked entirely dry into this arid soul isolation, wading knee-deep in a dead man's mess. He could no longer disambiguate himself from Sam. He could no longer sever his own internal currents from Sam's remaining wake. And Sam's notes only grew denser, expanding outward into a self-administered assassination void, daring him to keep going.

But how could Barry stop? He was commissioned, as Sam was, to a thankless doom of penance for some lawless mind. An all-knowing computational matrix like Zuse and Turing espoused, or perhaps something far more sinister leading back to pyramid energy soul transfers, from Kemet to Hathor. Doomed regardless. Dark and deep was the retrograde of this night, and the only escape was to run straight through it, straight into that static void. Barry was stuck within the wetworks like a rat burrowing itself ever deeper into the underground, digging and racing ever deeper into the recessed caverns beneath a burning inferno.

The notes that Barry was actively taking, in order to notate those that Sam had left behind in the past, now tracked and traced each other with ever-mocking rhetorical precision: either total madness or complete cosmic release.

"That’s it!" Barry called out into the empty room. "Cosmic release! I must free myself!"

Throwing on his running shoes, he ran robotically, like an MK-Ultra flunky, mechanically toward those same streets that Sam had walked during that repetitive, eternal dread of night. There were no comforting, close stars in that clear, ever-looming cosmos above—only a multitude of receding eyes looking down to mock his fatal independence.

Under those same stars, laws needed to be broken—the very same artificial laws that men created in order to entertain themselves while they played a scripted role, a game whereby they would torture other men. Yet, each individual walked in a blind procession toward their fated moment—that final transition into nothingness, or into the exact same madness and corporate business model played out in another, more sinister gradient of light.

What should have sounded as a rhythmic, upbeat trot in the cadence of his run felt and sounded like dry thuds—as if knocking on a massive, alien, metallic, cold freezer butcher's door with the bloody, exposed, and bare knuckles of a dead man frozen in time beside the chicken feet and monkey brains of a cosmic, foreign meat market that might lie on the other side—a monolith. Barry felt his own utter ephemerality with a sense of impending doom.

​The Syncretic Convergence: Traveling the Dark Duat

​Barry ran, pushing his physical endurance deeper into the dark. "Was he breathless?" he thought. "Could he feel himself?"

​He surged from Montgomery through New Montgomery, finally sliding to a halt on the asphalt in Ravens Grove, now staring directly up at the closed facade of the Nectar and Bean coffee shop with an ominous, head-on precision. He was heaving, yet his respiration was nowhere near as deep into Excess Post-Exercise Oxygen Consumption as it physiologically and mathematically should have been. Panning down his wrist, the digital display of his sports watch revealed an unnatural, immediate recovery. Barry wasn’t superhuman; he was unwittingly pitching his own internal entropy directly into the Void, striving to do what none had ever done or would ever do again.

​The environment behaved like a tightening noose or a cosmic Venus flytrap—the more he struggled, the more his exertion was tracked as an offense against the infinite. He knew he could no longer fly under the silent radar, but he had to convict himself to a higher meaning beneath that blood-orange moon.

​Barry had not disgraced himself the way Sam had. He had not burned his falsity upon an altar whereby he would be excluded, cast out, mocked, and laughed at by his own townspeople—at least, not yet. Yet he felt the heavy reality of the non-fungible currency exchanged in the serious domain of angels, demons, and gods—if there truly was any functional difference between those man-made, bruja-initiated titles.

​He stood in the dark before that coffee shop, sunk deep into the heart of a wicked, Presbyterian coastal enclave where the archaic town gates still stood.

​Ravens Grove was a place where corporate franchises tucked themselves away like capitalistic Masonic traps designed for unsuspecting prey or game. From the massive, largely unused Kingdom Hall to the south—holding archives of names that stretched to the rocky shores of that ocean of liquid souls—to the clandestine satanic rituals occurring behind manicured white picket fences with nine caged cats in the backyard: always fresh cats, castaways with far more idle trust than they should evolutionarily possess by now.

​Did they, too, trade upon this systemic transit?

​Did cat-kind exist as an entire collective to barter this deal, much like women trading useless eaters and preselected fools to maintain humanity's continuation and perpetual loop of return—the bucle de retorno?

​To offer up and sacrifice the few to preserve the illusion for the many. What was man and reality in totality but spirit?

Barry resolved to turn the dial of the clock backward. He would run that Faro reloj trap, looping back around to El Centro—not three times, but five. Five ticks, no thorns, utilizing the inverted pentagram as a literal dial.

He would deploy the entirety of his physical vessel while focusing on the strict purity and spin of his mind, balancing his consciousness under a court of cosmic, galactic jesters and unseen judges. To survive, he would have to run ten miles without being intercepted by the mindless small-town cops patrolling this ungodly Masonic union.

His heart rate recovered miraculously to a flat baseline, yet the monitor still displayed the jagged, anxious rhythm he was now sentenced to carry from a disturbed soul. The natural magic came flowing through him as he committed his biology to the universal language of Ego Sum.

Before initiating the fivefold pass, he knew he had to run as an empty man. He had to offer up his semen and his blood near the lower corridors of El Centro, a few blocks away from the Masonic Hall and within an arm's throw of the library where man's archives lay in wait like an informational cap on the density of entropy.

He approached a familiar bench—a literal crack in fractured time where Sam had once stopped a blind man using nothing but an inverted pentagram projected directly from his mind. That yellow house with that round Victorian stained-glass solar cult window, left open just a crack in its rotation—owned by none other than that high-level Mason and his Mormon Eastern Star wife, Anchor and Petunia Preston—stood right there at the 14th Street endcap.

Barry spit into his hand, milking his flaccid member not with pleasure or the intent to gratify the flesh, but with the hunger, eagerness, and absolute demand of voice and outcome. Quickly, he released his seminal fluid into his left hand. Gripping his eyes shut with total conviction, his back turned to the street, he recalled the exact spatial coordinates Sam had mapped years ago, mentally suspending that inverted pentagram and prying open those two-dimensional portals.

Barry rubbed the fresh release of his own stem cells directly onto his face. Holding the mental landscape open, those two portals of light spun magnetically awake. Right at that moment, the ominous, distant clock tower chimed 3:00 AM, sending a near-silent echo of soothing bell bongs across the pavement.

Barry ran straight through those open, white-flaming portals of his mind. Surging up Bosque Avenue, onto El Centro, and looping back up to Faro the wrong way, Barry ran that circuit switchboard. He was seething with the intensity of a pure principle's return.

At that threshold, there was no definable difference between Barry and the homeless vagrants like Sam who walked the streets sleepless, acting as voodoo-hexed transmissions for ancient messages written in a light far too fragmented to decode.

Someone had to decode it. The mind had to be forged, and there was an absolute endcap placed on the materium required to perform such tasks. This matter had to be borrowed—or forcefully taken—from the other side.

The Other Side

I had to return to my normalcy, or what there was left of it. I, in all my daylight shame, never would have contemplated such strange rituals. Yet, in Sam's defense, neither had he. I think he wanted to prove to himself and to the broader world that there in fact was, is, and remains a purity and a definitive, hard-set, principled order to life, this world, and this universe as a whole. Sam was on a quest to abolish the falsity. It wasn't as if, from his extensive writings and from his own words, "I regard myself as a singular messianic figure." Rather, how Sam conveyed his point had more to do with a single person's power of conviction to alter the repeating pattern just long enough to allow a total reset.

A reset back to what, though? Why do some believe this—that a master purity lies at the heart of it all—when absolutely nothing points to it? Not in religion, and not in the factual messages behind every thought, act, and deed by humanity. Rather, people enjoy placing themselves in the seat of the spectator, and Christianity itself is the spectator's box. They—those of the Christian cult—work actively together to cover their ears, yell, and drown out the acts that they have committed like children and still commit today.

"Christianity," Sam noted in bold, "is the most dangerous contagion ever compiled for outright cybernetic control through programmed mass hysteria."

I returned home from the frantic madness of my late-night run exhausted and spiritually empty. How could I be tricked and seduced by the void so easily? In truth, it presses upon me as if I am working at Fyodor Dostoevsky's pre-Siberian printing press, sending posts from the underground to find those meeting points where true rationalism prevails, absent the blood and guts of ultimate murder and inevitable guerra.

California was an integral part of Mexico once upon a time, and before that, a spiritual hub for indigenous peoples. In fact, Sam writes: "Archaeological records indicate that Native Americans have lived in the area for over 13,000 years."

"So I suppose my homage in the use of scattered, pidgin Spanish is to at least hail back to that time before slavery and greed won wars and appropriated land under perpetual false pretenses—at least back before the colonization," Sam writes here.

As I got out those shoeboxes and the huge stack of Sam's personal notes and archives, the box sat there like a massive waiter's tray carrying some choice, exotic bevy of foods. Who would consume this truth? I needed a shower, and I was paranoid about outside cameras identifying me and scanning my face through national data systems. This was not the world of one or two decades ago; things were different now due to technology—very different. We have entered fully into a surveillance state.

Barry begins to write an archive of his own notations, similar to Sam's:

I think personal sex magick is a desperate form of language to call out for justice—man's justice. It is an attempt to use the last and final items of personal power, identity, and procreation, and try to infuse that very epigenetic mixture of personal expression into some form of absolute ownership.

I read Sam's notes and don't realize how they impact me, because they infuse too much density and richness of thought. I reach out for this shoebox and the massive pile it rests on, frantically searching for some culture where there exists none—but in there, he found a way through this matrix of madness. So I write here in these notes as a form of my own personal extension beyond them. Who is man, and more to the point, what is this work that we are doing here?

Sam's notes demanded chapters, categorization, and an order. In fact, the fragmentation and density showed a possible clue that the ontology is, in fact, disordered and craves a scribe to simply color-code and format it back into a vibrant, fluid movement in the ongoing dance and flow of a once-assumed cosmic union of sorts.

I am just a dropout journalist turned nepotist, and sometimes a bookkeeper for my aunt's small, local restaurant chain. Getting free rent from one of her houses that my uncle bought when he was alive—what do I know? But I do believe that we are all working on greater truths. I just don't know how to classify this dense work. Do I go by chronological order, or by and through the failures and victories that seem to be rooted in morality—a master morality? Culminating in that point where man can comfortably leave his body, knowing that he has indeed synthesized himself into the flow of something greater.

I don't know anymore, so I just allow myself to do what comes naturally. Following this method could cost me everything—my relationships, my housing—and ultimately make me homeless like Sam, or worse, imprisoned and jailed. But I don't care anymore, and in many ways, I care more. As I reach out for Sam and these archives, I leave the comfort of a culture and an idea that was never mine to begin with anyway—nor do I want anything more to do with it at all.

I found a passage where Sam highlights Ian Stevenson and Steven Braude, searching for answers within other men's lifetimes of research work. He noted the remarkable energy transfer taking place, where many people seem to reincarnate locally, while others show physical signs and retain facts through a mind where the incarnation is distant in both time and location from what they remember.

I see Bruce Lipton's early pioneering work on epigenetics, then a sweeping arrow pointing directly to Michael Levin, Douglas Brash, and W. Ross Ashby, mapping how living systems form and maintain physical shape through morphogenesis. Then, right next to this—seeming most assuredly unrelated to most—I see another arrow down to an area where Sam highlights the word Merkabah. He sketches distinct spheres and the spaces in between those spheres, which are hourglass-shaped. Each shift boldly states a color and what he calls a "shift," followed by an explanatory note.

Continuing on:

 * Gravitational Redshift: According to Einstein's theory of relativity, light loses energy as it climbs out of an intense gravitational field—a black hole, causing its wavelength to stretch.

 * Universe Expansion / Edwin Hubble's Cosmic Redshift: (Underlined with a strong double line below this note) Almost all distant galaxies are moving away from us, meaning the universe is expanding.

 * Predicting Collisions: The Andromeda Galaxy exhibits a blueshift, indicating it is on a direct collision course with the Milky Way billions of years from now.

Sam seemed to be mapping out a theory of his own regarding the shape and form of these patterns in a sort of distribution that modern scientists seemed to look past. Or was it, in its entirety, some arcane, esoteric theory which could never be proven? But it was all so compelling nonetheless.

The fact that Sam handed over these notes and works in their entirety, no longer wanting to see them again, was something I found odd. So much work, so many years of research. Did Sam want me to archive them for others, or had he known something specific about me? This all began to warp my mind. Why would he even give a shit about me in the first place? I was just a kid who never even knew who his own father was—the bastard child that my aunt took pity on. Who was I, really?

Barry jumped into the shower; he needed to get clean. He was exhausted, however relentlessly intrigued by it all. As that hot water hit his face, he looked back at the shameful fragments of his recent past, batting them away into a state of absolute ownership.

"I did that! I intentionally did that!"

In a world of diminishing raw male force and actualization, personal programming begins to go haywire, and consciousness—as electromagnetic energy—reaches out like lightning sprites high above, searching desperately for its grounding.

Barry stepped out of that hot, steamy shower. The haze of it lingered as a combination of his own flushed biology and the entropy pumped out from the unseen water heater concealed behind the walls of the hallway tucked back. The substance was as thick as the fog that often rolled up that seaside town of Ravens Grove, creeping into those nearby parlors, coffee shops, and merchant stores. Unsuspected were the entities that lurked freely within the very gradients and shadows of daylight, but Barry had a very good idea of these inner workings by now.

Barry dressed meagerly, wearing only older clothing and a hat that would protect the back of his neck from massive sun exposure. He took snapshots with his smartphone of as many of Sam's notes as he could find. Opening an app he had downloaded months ago, he began to play them all, as that electronic AI voice went into motion, broadcasting hours and hours of Sam's life documentation.

Barry would end up being sucked back into the vortex of Ravens Grove. He was now walking along the shores, past old railroad tracks, tracing his way back toward the dunes and an old factory that processed silica sand for shipment to places that didn't have it natively. He cut past the Kingdom Hall, then past the Mormon Tabernacle—and finally past that massive, privatized piece of land where the railroads, though long closed here, would invite the rich in for a hefty price, offering the exclusivity of posturing always behind closed, occulted walls and gateways.

The only time Barry would cease to walk was to take a gulp of water in a nearby bathroom or from an infrequent drinking fountain. Otherwise, he refrained from talking to others, abstaining from making eye contact with anyone, or even patronizing the local grocery stores and convenience markets that were more common in adjacent New Montgomery.

Now fully pulling away, he kept on walking—possibly thirty miles or more by now. He was tired and sore, but he was drawn by the fires of the unknown that felt more familiar by the hour.

This is what it took. His phone and battery pack were running low after at least ten straight, continuous hours with barely an interruption, his smartphone locked on airplane mode. The world outside him was further fragmenting into ribbons of time, loosely referencing Sam's own words and vernacular as Barry reflected. He saw that little had truly changed over all these years. Sure, the shop ownership and grocery store banners did their swapping out, but it all appeared to Barry through Sam as a choreographed dance now.

People continued to think of themselves as the very hubs of these distribution patterns or forms that could actually make discernible life choices, even as the selfish pursuits of their own authorship pulled from the very circles of family and friends around them.

A close family member's death was perhaps seen more as random than anyone taking personal, cosmic responsibility for pulling too much energy out from the finite cap limitation; all each could see was themselves.

They clung selfishly to an unsaid, unclarified faith in a sort of random distribution where there was none. There was only this little pool given to each being, and ultimately to the localized collective—hoard too much, and another has none for themselves.

Each one you saw smiling gleefully as a shop owner took the lion's share from a finite and volatile cap of informational entropy—nothing but timed fuses in the process of future detonation.

Barry rounded past that old cemetery, realizing that there was no more room here either. Most bodies these days were stacked in county morgues or added to the long list of scientific donors placed in lines postmortem—perhaps the very same people who currently awaited their turn for incineration were the ones they had routinely waited behind in line for a blueberry-filled, artery-clogging morning French pastry.

No, people demanded what they demanded. That was all most were ever codified to be: shapes and forms, connecting gradients of light, and some keeping the light out entirely wherever they went.

Barry recalled something Sam had noted, realizing then in passing that he was out here now, in Ravens Grove in the flesh, only miles away from where the afternoon event in Sam's somewhat scattered journal and notes had taken place.

He realized, in a fragmented, idiomatic, diatonic scale pattern to himself:

"The dates! The dates are what to look at, and to retrace!"

Regaining his subverted initial thought, Barry reflected for a brief, fleeting moment on his original intention—recalling how a patron of the Nectar and Bean had argued about the quality of his daily house coffee blend some years back.

The man was so infused with the intensity of his insistent need to be heard, shouting, "This coffee is not the same coffee that you serve every day!" and "I should know! I have been coming here for thirty years, and only today it tastes cheap, knockoff, and criminally fraudulent!" or something to that effect.

And then something like, "I demand my money back! Let me talk to the shop owner, let me speak to Frank!"

But the coffee shop owner, Frank, was away traveling as he typically was, and the barista was giving no refunds, Sam noted.

So the heated dispute turned into an hours-long jousting session.

As a new barista entered the scene for his afternoon shift—wrote Sam—this fresh barista, being in a sort of rare, defiant mood, seized upon the rudeness and the now-exhausted, worn-out argument of the long-time patron, setting in on the customer harder than the first.

The guest of the establishment would not relent, until he finally suffered a massive heart attack right then and there.

He fell as if he were going to make snow angels on the ground below him in a final blow of defiance, not knowing what other ammunition of protest to deploy for his next worn-out diatribe.

All for a refund on a two-dollar cup of coffee? Maybe in old age the man had finally lost his taste buds? No one could ever really say for sure.

Was this simply his time to go, or did he prematurely coax the viper of death into its final grip?

Or perhaps, as Sam put it: "To me, it was deferred karma. That man's hostility was suppressed and built up like a dam until finally that debt of deferment came like a final bill due—one that he could not pay. Maybe those two bucks were akin to the solar cults' claims that the money in your pocket upon death becomes your fare for the final ride by Anubis, or entry onto the back of some passing comet. Who knows?"

The night came on cold for Barry, and he was miles away from his home in Montgomery.

He came upon a small park, where an old carriage house sat next to a wishing well fashioned to loop a continuous trickle into a perennial, ever-overflowing bucket.

He sat at one of three tables, one having a chessboard thoughtfully built into its tabletop, fashioned to last through the minor shifts of the salty coastal California seasons.

Barry lay down on the brick; no one was around.

The open night soothed him into a sleep as he recalled from Sam's notes—only now—that this was the very same park where Sam, years earlier, had mimetically done the same thing.

As the madness crept in and homelessness became a choice of self-administered conviction, Barry fell into that same spell Sam had, utterly and physically exhausted—now seeing that jade face, so ancient and present.

The same random faces reached in and through Barry; he could, like Sam, make out every pore on their skin.

But he was too tired to remain awake and fight them off, and he was far too uncomfortable to collapse into anything deeper than a hypnagogic, trance-like state, where he could still feel the unrest of the day's exasperating labor on his heart and the fine, cold sweat covering his face and body.

That coolness of the night came upon him.

Barry was taken up by a current now so light.

Like a leaf in the wind, he began to fly almost immediately, drifting above Ravens Grove and along the hidden nooks of beaches and shores he had hardly ever taken notice of.

He could see from a topographical, bird's-eye view the cemetery he had encountered earlier that day, and the strange, false glow of lights coming from the tabernacles and halls he had passed many hours before.

Nothing haunted Barry—no specter of light, nor phantoms bound within it. It was a complete freedom from his earthly shackles.

From his detached dream form, he knew he had to get closer to this underlying reality every single day.

He had to carry the torch for Sam and for everyone who demanded the simple freedom to exist—all those men trapped in the shackles of the mundane, waiting in silent lines for full male exhaustion, total diminishment, and the eventual anonymity of a stacked-up corpse in a county morgue.

Surely, there had to be more.

This was the exact moment to choose life: to stop questioning, to walk directly away from the illusion, and to step cleanly into the void as an active, thinking aspect of it.

Through walking, fasting, studying, and reflecting, he was actively claiming the ultimate title to his own soul.

This was self-mastery in its truest sense, demanding nothing less than a purified energetic current to maintain his resistance against the relentless, carnal friction of the daily struggle.

The small-town police were always looming just at arm's length; where were they now?

Barry slept in that park just a block away from the Ravens Grove Police headquarters, and only a block away from that old, menacing clock tower at city hall.

People were becoming the body politic, taking on the social configuration of an arbitrary giant, and the backbone of it was the ever-shifting law—taken from the witches' Theban annals of the black law dictionary and supplanted almost cleanly into modern-day structural influence.

The feeling that Barry had awoken to: What God was truly in active form, pure principles to be upheld by one who walked in them?

Of course, like Sam, there would be many pitfalls and trials which awaited, but now he was taking stock of the world that this one might hope to become one day.

Unlike the doomscrolling, dopamine-draining, anxiety-filled nights of looping and overlapping emptiness intoxicating him into the cymatic ringing headache of cybernetically entrained programmed sleep, Barry was awakened by the sun, the sound of seagulls, and small birds—pájaros, as Sam would often include in his pidgin Spanish, which I began to adopt as well.

There was something more real about it in the ability to describe life.

"I am not going home," Barry said out loud, just moments after the sun fully rose. "I am in utter pain, but I know that this is the same pain, on the same streets that Sam lived and felt his way through, this mad labyrinth!"

"No, I am going to go into the Nectar and Bean as it sits today, now with a different name, like us all."

Now the Nectar and Bean was owned by a new owner—dueño—a cybernetic swap named Sancho, from what the sign displayed outside when Barry walked past earlier.

The title switch now went by the R.G. [Ravens Grove] Civic House.

The ontology played hide and seek through the passage of time, but the message always remained clear.

"And," Barry thought playfully, "that cup can taste like ass for all I care, I am certainly not having a heart attack over it!"

Barry entered the Nectar and Bean, now aptly titled the RG Civic House.

A strange man who stared through a magnifying glass with a light at the end, who was obviously mostly blind, sat with his wife at the table to the right as Barry entered the establishment nonchalantly, panning the room.

Later, Barry would learn from a man named Rat that the man was a writer and historian whose passions for information could not be suppressed through physical limitations—or maybe he was stuck on autopilot like the rest of us.

I would also learn later that to my far left when walking through the door, the most vile divorce lawyer in the entire Montgomery area, who sat anxiously thumbing through stacks of newspapers waiting for his next clients to be brought to him, was another regular here.

Coffee shops, especially this one, were not nearly as discriminating; typically, with only the cost of a two-dollar cup, one could while away the hours here.

Then filtering—or perhaps slithering—into the back of the establishment, a gimp that reminded me of Boris Karloff named Clark, with his unforgettable lazy eye and wide-eyed stare, would make himself known.

He was an aspiring occult practitioner nonetheless; some forms of fiction really walk right off the pages from some dusty coffee shop bookshelf.

Barry sat down to get a charge for his now-dead phone and backup battery.

"I suppose I will need to get back to my place to take more images of Sam's work," he thought.

He hadn't up to this point planned on bringing any money along.

That's when he first noticed him: a homeless guy who went only by Rat—who would introduce himself in the moments that followed—walked up with a sort of conniving arrogance and simply told the crew working behind the counter of the RG Civic House that "he would just grab a squeeze and pay tomorrow."

You could tell by the two employees' looks and eye rolls that Rat probably wasn't good for it, but the protective facade was abandoned and they simply didn't care.

Barry decided to sit at a table in the back area where he could plug in his phone, attempting to fully charge both.

Rat was charging his phone from the same free wall port. He sipped proudly on his coffee, noticing that Barry had none.

"No money either, man?" he said with a nod.

Barry shot back, "No, man," patting his pockets, showing them as being entirely empty.

"I got you, bro. Cream and sugar, man?"

Barry gave an approving gesture. "Sure, man," he said, shamefully laughing at the fact he didn't have a dime on him.

Barry's work was infrequent for his aunt, and he wasn't really all that great at accounting. Still, he had managed to take accounting classes just long enough prior to dropping out. He could run simple local transactions and get the numbers as good as he could for the CPA. That was pretty much it.

Free rent, easy job, but zero future prospects and too much free time to worry and contemplate reality.

Barry slipped into a haunting mind stare sitting there in the recesses of that coffee shop, where he could not only feel Sam but could feel the conjuring of all these other characters ushered here as well in a sort of allostatic recombination.

The environment knew what it required and simply drew in the necessary agents; an exact fit was not at all required.

The creeping ontology would work with whatever forms slithered in, and here he was, he reflected solemnly. But could he stop it?

He was already an action within the model proteins of its mechanistic biosemiotic expansion.

While waiting for his phone to charge—as Rat entered the bathroom to wash off his obvious vagrancy for a brief respite—Barry reflected to himself:

"We are all exposed to the entire universe. Our bodies are limited language models of communication to the realms beyond our immediate vision, though by way of emotion—and the language of emotion—we can feel them. But how do we emote when we can only ever act out with sight, sound, sense, and emotion? There is, too, a longer way round: the living archives, where each thought, feeling, and sense is taken to a universal form of full development. These intellects and freaks of all kinds come into this world on a certain day, at a specific junction point in time and space, each championing their works the best that they can, oftentimes while few could ever fathom the depths of their labor. A baton, a torch being carried forth over the length of an entire cycle. The eons both compete with one another and work in operational awareness to advance the knowledge, thus unlocking those other areas of light, sight, frequency, magnetism, and emotion. The goal is to epigenetically recode our own Code and become more."

As Barry heard the bathroom blower sound, the water running, the active scrubbing and wiping of undergarments, and Rat flushing the toilet a second time to signal his return to the adjacent seat near the window, Barry hastily finished his thought—knowing that he was investigating Sam here, trying to find living remnants of his life, perhaps to speak to those who were an active part of it or remembered him in some experience or in some way:

"This is what great philosophers depict, along with great scientists, doctors, and writers of all kinds: to carry that weight one step further, perhaps a little further, maybe even through into another junction point of that ever-unfolding event horizon where that ever-twisting and morphing Metatron's Cube meets the Mandelbrot set. That great wheel in the sky."

He finished as Rat returned, now smelling of patchouli, having obviously washed his wet hair, which was now pulled back to a slimy, slick point with a rubber band he had most likely found or lifted from someone else in this very coffee shop.

"I'm Rat, by the way. What do you go by?" Rat said as he squeezed in from the bathroom, pressing himself past Barry into his former chair, speaking with the newfound but quickly fading ephemerality of a short morning mental pep talk in an obscure bathroom outside the radar of the town square.

"Barry. Rat, good to meet you. I go by Barry."

This introduction would kick off a small series of talks and a kind of relationship.

But these were no mere characters in a play.

And by the looks of the antique tapestry and leaded-came ceilings, this building harbored more secrets, as if the truth of itself hid there in plain sight, only tucked away like the regulars drawn in there each day by the walls or cracks—enveloped like an amino acid trifold into another occulted dimension folded in upon itself.

Rat immersed himself in a book on poetry from the shelf behind him—sitting up briefly with straight-backed posture at first, putting on a face and pretending to be an upstanding citizen, but quickly slumping into an overt, heaping toxic mass of unsoothable void in overindulgent comfort as he would soon mooch several more cups of coffee and even boost some individually wrapped bulk animal crackers out in plain view by swapping anecdotal stories to the bored baristas behind the counter bar.

While Barry pulled his half-charged phone from the wall port, now thumbing through the last remaining images of Sam's notes stored in his phone—the ones that the app he downloaded could not autoread—he found his place as he further swiped through.

Barry was not only there to immerse himself in Sam's world; he was there to study Sam's history, his archives and notes.

Then, seeing notes that seemed to be directly taken off the internet or from some seemingly unrelated books as Sam obviously tried to formulate some mental cohesion here of otherwise completely disparate subject matters, could it make sense? Barry opened the docs, now getting lost in that liminal space of pondering, staring down at his phone, scouring the details. While also fully feeling the atmosphere, living in Sam's skin.

As he opened the first saved document he had not seen prior, he read on:

The Venusian Star and Scientific Ignition

Sam’s notes map major milestones in propulsion, atmospheric penetration, and electrical conductivity directly to the structural geometry of the 8-year Venusian pentagram cycle:

• Nikola Tesla / Wardenclyffe (1901–1902): Designed for worldwide wireless energy transmission utilizing the ionosphere, matching the terminal reset window of an 8-year Venusian cycle. (Tarot: The Magician / Ace of Swords)

• Thomas Townsend Brown / Electro-Gravitics (1921–1927): Discovered the Biefeld–Brown effect (high-voltage capacitors experiencing thrust toward the positive electrode) and filed his foundational patent on April 15, 1927, sitting precisely on consecutive Venusian reset boundaries. (Tarot: Two of Wands)

• Auguste Piccard / Stratospheric Exploration (May 1931): Engineered the first pressurized aluminum cabin, ascending to 15,781 meters to enter the stratosphere, aligning with the 1926–1934 Venusian cycle. (Tarot: Seven of Cups)

• Wernher von Braun / Rocketry Architecture (October 3, 1942): Executed the first successful launch of the V-2 ballistic missile at Peenemünde, serving as the midpoint terminal node of the 1938–1946 Venusian cycle. (Tarot: The Chariot / King of Swords)

• Anti-Gravitics and Die Glocke: Classified research conducted by the SS in Poland, tracking the final consolidation of Nazi scientific assets between 1943 and 1945.

• The SS Legal Surrender Variable: While the regular German military surrendered on May 7–8, 1945, the Schutzstaffel (SS) never signed an independent corporate dissolution instrument. This legal omission allowed scientific assets to transfer via Operation Paperclip without breaking technical script continuity.

• Operation Paperclip (Late 1945–1946): The covert extraction of over 1,600 German scientists to Fort Bliss and White Sands during the closing arc of the 1938–1946 Venusian cycle. (Tarot: Six of Swords)

• Peenemünde Launch Coordinates: The October 3, 1942, V-2 launch site at 54°08' North, 13°47' East aligned with Venus positioned at 28 degrees Leo, matching the Point 2 vertex of the Venusian pentagram. (Tarot: Ace of Wands / King of Swords)

Mathematical and Chronological Intercepts

• The 581-Day Synodic Bound: The precise interval between specific consecutive Venusian conjunctions (such as March 29, 2001, to October 31, 2002), differing slightly from the 583.9-day average. (Tarot: The Death Card)

• The 167 Prime Number Variable: Day 167 within the 581-day cycle represents an indivisible node that cannot be fractured by external variables. (Tarot: Seven of Wands / Two of Pentacles)

The 10:13 Structural Intercepts:

• 1307 Sovereign Liquidation: Friday, October 13, 1307 (10/13), marked the arrest of the Knights Templar and seizure of their banking network by King Philip IV. (Tarot: Ten of Swords / Death Card)

• 1602 Corporate Standard: The founding charter of the Dutch East India Company (VOC), reducing numerically to 9, mirroring digital root cycles of 1013. (Tarot: Nine of Pentacles)

• Synodic Fraction: The fractional ratio of the 2.3-degree retrograde slippage hits 10.13% of the standard orbital calculation margin. (Tarot: Wheel of Fortune / Death Card)

Notes: The Black Sun / Germanic Son

The Great Pyramid of Giza interacts with a conical-shaped electromagnetic gap, bridging peer-reviewed physics with alternative engineering models.

Landmark studies in the Journal of Applied Physics demonstrate that the pyramid's geometry acts as a resonant system for radio waves, concentrating maximum electromagnetic intensity at the apex while channeling a secondary node downward into the Subterranean Chamber. This empirical scattering mechanism parallels patent-backed alternative engineering frameworks—like the Pyramid Electric Generator (US Patent 8004250B2)—which conceptualizes the structure as a giant geometric capacitor and vortex antenna designed to tap atmospheric pressure gradients and telluric oscillations.

Within the narrative's thematic architecture, this conical electromagnetic gap functions as a literal vacuum hourglass and translocality conduit. The concentrated apex operates as an active axis mundi—a threshold where the flat, circular entropic decay of the material world is pulled upward through kinematic tension, compressed, and expelled into the multi-layered hypercube of an emerging mental universe.

This mechanism aligns with the eight-year Venusian pentagram alignment, which operates within zodiacal planetary energy leyline loops. The system generates etheric plasma through crystal osmosis into a holographic field of conduits: projected tracks of deterministic forms and patterns forming a highly controlled grid and distribution network.

Esoteric History of the Space Program

Sam’s archives document how foundational figures behind modern rocketry and astronomy integrated mysticism and non-human intelligence frameworks into their work:

• Astronomical Foundations: Edwin Hubble expanded the known universe via the 100-inch Hooker telescope, while George Ellery Hale (inventor of the spectroheliograph and founder of Caltech) linked astronomy to ancient sun worship, decorating Mount Wilson lodges with Egyptian hieroglyphs and claiming guidance from an "elf."

• Jack Parsons and JPL: Co-founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and developer of JATO solid fuel boosters, Parsons was a high-ranking member of Aleister Crowley’s O.T.O., executing the "Babylon Working" and Bartzabel rituals while reciting Crowley's Hymn to Pan during rocket tests.

• The Nazi and Soviet Threads: The Thule Society and Ahnenerbe integrated occultism into German rocketry (with Hermann Oberth noting aid from "other worlds"). Meanwhile, Russian Cosmism founder Nikolai Fyodorov and Soviet rocketry pioneer Konstantin Tsiolkovsky sought technology to eliminate death and reported receiving celestial transmissions from ethereal beings.

• NASA's Framework: Key leaders and astronauts (including James Webb, John Glenn, Buzz Aldrin, Edgar Mitchell, and James Irwin) held 33rd-Degree Scottish Rite Freemasonry ties. Pop culture output like Disney's Man and the Moon (consulted on by von Braun) featured sensor readouts fixed at 33 degrees, while later initiatives included Neil Armstrong’s 1975 expedition to Ecuador’s Tayos Cave for ancient metallic artifacts.

The Crystal Gas Prismatic Matrix Conversion

• Tidal Locking: The Moon is tidally locked with Earth, meaning its 27.3-day orbital and rotational periods match perfectly, ensuring only one side is ever visible from the surface.

• Mass Concentrations: Data from NASA missions confirms the existence of "mascons"—hyper-dense basaltic pockets buried beneath lunar maria that create localized gravitational surges across the orbital grid.

• Tidal Coupling: The Moon's gravitational vector drives Earth's oceanic and atmospheric tides, producing mechanical friction that slows planetary rotation by roughly two milliseconds per century.

• Biological Chronobiology: Lunar phases correlate directly with statistical shifts in human sleep architecture, melatonin production, and acute psychiatric admission trends, influencing baseline metabolic outputs.

• Eclipse Alignment: Because the Moon is roughly 400 times smaller than the Sun and 400 times closer, it achieves a precise geometric symmetry that totally covers the solar disk during an eclipse.

• The Substance: Helium-3 (He³) is a light, non-radioactive isotope of helium gas.

• Accumulation: Rare on Earth due to our protective magnetic field and atmosphere, Helium-3 has been continuously showered onto the Moon by solar winds for over four billion years, trapping the gas inside its loose surface regolith.

• Energy Potential: It is prized as a prime fuel source for clean nuclear fusion, yielding massive amounts of energy when fused with deuterium with virtually zero radioactive waste.

• Scale and Extraction: Apollo mission samples indicate roughly one million tons of Helium-3 are embedded across the lunar surface, requiring the regolith to be heated between 700°C and 1,000°C to release the trapped volatile isotopes.

• The Transmission Matrix: The gas generates a discrete, finite window of luminosity that tethers into a rapid download for the next eight-year cycle, creating a prism of distribution between the Sun, the Moon, and the gas giants. This generates a programming signal activated through an unseen diamond’s inverted anti-photon light. Fundamentally, we are being controlled and channeled from the distribution networks of the Black Sun.

Final note from a screenshot of Sam's notebooks: Magenta Light Spectrum acts as a purifier and rebuffer.

Now closing his phone pictures and saved documents, Barry sat there in thought, partly perplexed.

As Barry sifted through the remaining pages, the data points formed a dense, repetitive pattern. "Well, it all seems like over-thought-out dead ends and gibberish," he mused. "Still, there is something to it—rehashing this complex anatomy of occulted truths that are actually out here in the fresh air of reality for us each to access, if we so choose."

Barry would eventually have to creep back to the small home provided by his late uncle and his now hard-working aunt. It felt like a vacation in hell, or maybe just another layer of it—a sort of Dante's Inferno where you seemed to meet the same base characters whether in reality or fiction. Was there truly any difference?

He had already grappled with how worthless he felt, and how much he needed something to boost his internal feelings toward self-validation and higher meaning. Yet here he was, feeling lower than ever.

He didn't think about the risk to his already dwindling personal reputation, though it might take its toll. Some nosy neighbor or self-entitled auditor of people might play police officer and tell his Aunt Tia what a louse he truly was after all. Doing so would release her from the heavy burden of keeping him around anyway in this storehouse of his late uncle’s failings—an uncle who had been blindsided by his own small-town capitalistic and political pursuits, which were meant to secure Barry's home along with his entire family's future legacy, if there were truly any.

"I miss you, Uncle John," Barry spoke to himself. He soon realized, however, that he only missed the fabricated idea of his late uncle.

If John were still alive now, over these past few years, he would have spoken to Barry only a handful of times in passing. Within those brief interludes, there would be nothing but fake smiles and a clinging to the un-rewritable misconception of who Barry was.

A hard-pressed reinterpretation of reality. We are each like little reality black boxes left over from lifelong tragedies, being recorded here, he thought in a passing impulse.

Yet Barry dreamed of generating something, anything he could—perhaps eclipsing by sheer force of will his own code-written persona now in this world. He wanted to landmark a type of transferable inner gold that could somehow be transposed as an iconic aspect of his own personal contribution of non-fungible, yet transferable, expression.

It—this work right here—could mark his existence, and thereby his family's, in the annals of greatness: that alchemical gold.

Barry reflected on these seemingly abstract works that he had first begun to decipher as a fourteen-year-old kid, from Charles Fort's march to the mystery of the Haanel-written Master Key. Books like Fulcanelli’s The Mystery of the Cathedrals, or the esoteric blueprints of Thoth’s Emerald Tablets, written masterfully not by con artists, but by fellow practitioners in pursuit of the Great Work. It was a torch passed down on the value of internal gold, the materia prima, the first substance of the new man—or the man remade.

His work here was a long time coming, and now he was in the nest and throes of a true magical warrior practitioner that seemed to still live in between—Sam!

Perhaps Barry was riding on his coattails? Somewhere there were answers, as written declarations became laments to those keepers of that hidden knowledge toward these heavily occulted master truths. Feelings, thoughts, impulses.

"We are all writers here on earth, working on our master's thesis," quipped Barry.

But just as that passing thought entered his mind, Rat broke into his field of concentration, which was already heavily fragmented by hunger.

"Shit, you hungry, man? What was your name again? I forgot, my bad."

"Food?" Barry shot back.

"Yeah, it's Tuesday, so the big one is closed—over at that red Lutheran church on El Centro—but the Catholic Church is handing out lunch bags today. I'm heading over there right now, but there might be a line."

Barry thought about going back home, but somehow he felt that would be deceptive to the cause. It felt like an insult not only to Sam, but to Rat, not to at least immerse himself in the culture of Sam’s walk, his life. Besides, Barry had a hell of a lot of questions remaining.

"Yeah, sure, man. I am pretty fucking hungry. What do they usually have in those lunch bags, anyways?" Barry wondered.

Rat replied, "Typically just Vienna sausages, chips, pudding or fruit cocktail, and like a boxed juice of some kind... oh, and water. And a pastry, if you get there early enough and it's still..." Rat looked down at his watch. "11:33. It's early. They might have some pretty good giveaways if we hurry!"

And with that, Barry was being inducted like an honorary member into the lower realms of society.

The first thing Rat did was pull out a pipe that contained only the thick, stinky ash of black soot and resin. He used a torch lighter for a long stretch as they hit the alleyway leading to the back of both church charity programs. The one open today was the furthest away, so they had time to talk.

"Got any Buddha, man? I mean weed?" Rat asked, using the question as an inductive test to extrapolate some baseline trade value from the conversation as a rule.

"No, I don't really smoke. At least not that often. It kind of makes me paranoid, to be honest," Barry replied.

Rat countered, "Yeah, I've tried to quit, but I just got out. So I'm just trying to chill and readjust after almost three months in county. Mostly drug charges, trying to sell them, being around the wrong people too."

"I hear ya, man. No judgments," Barry said. He instinctively pulled back a little and walked slightly slower now, as if a mask had fallen off Rat midway through the conversation, allowing him to see glimpses of the man's truth.

Barry steered the awkwardness into a value-based question. "Hey, man, do you remember someone named Sam? Sam Von Ralettes?"

"Shit," Rat said, stopping in his tracks. "That's my homie right there. That guy knew some serious shit about the occult, history, magic, and life. I miss that motherfucker. How do you know him?"

Barry returned, "I was writing a book with him—for him, something like that. Then we dropped off, and then it started back up again. Now I'm not sure what to do with all the recorded interviews and the stacks and stacks of notes I have from him. That guy was a trip!"

Rat extended his free hand to fist-bump Barry in agreement. "Fuck yeah, Barry! I learned a lot from that homie, and he helped me out a lot, too. We sort of hooked each other up whenever we needed a come-up, ya know?"

Rat continued, "I went to his funeral, saw his friends. That guy was really respected. I had no idea he was just another guy at the coffee shop, ya know? Working spells and carrying on some unseen lineage. But he told me there were some dark people in this town—grave robbers and necromancers. That cemetery over there in Ravens Grove, they do some dark rituals over there. You ever seen that weird guy with a pack of wolves for dogs? That guy is into some dark shit, I think Clive is his name."

"No," Barry said back. "In all the interviews and talks we had, Sam never mentioned any of it to me."

Then, thinking to himself, Barry wondered: Maybe he knew I'd find out on my own?

"Did Sam really go through this shit?" Barry asked Rat as they waited in line with perhaps twelve or fourteen people, now quickly reaching the middle of the group. "Why do they call you Rat anyway? Is that short for something, man?"

Barry felt like the two had established a bond over a common friend and focus.

"My real name is Rasmussen—kind of a cruel joke—but Rat suits me just fine," Rat replied. "My real parents gave me up when I was seven, with all the lifelong damage they could inflict on me in such a short time. They were both drug addicts and sex workers. I was adopted by a psychologist, and she fucked me up real good too. Now I just try to hustle, stay ahead of the game, and survive the best I can."

'Damn, that's pretty heavy, man. Life, right? Whoever's in charge, it's pretty fucked up—sadistic, even!' Barry jumped in to soothe the moment a bit, as there were now only three people ahead of them.

Each person left the office looking uncomfortable—undergoing what appeared to be a Catholic inquisition into their personal lives, an inquiry visible right through the large-paneled glass.

The thirty-foot distance between the curators of this class torture and their forensic approach at the so-called 'food giveaway' only exposed the strange Catholic shaming ritual taking place every Tuesday; thirty feet may as well have been thirty thousand.

'See that, man?' Rat smiled, pointing at a pastry tray through the window near the front door like it was a trap. 'Danishes. We got here just in time.'

Did Barry even like Danishes? Usually, a pastry was a minor celebration of autonomy—something you bought just because you could. But these looked like devil’s food charity: the stale, days-old tax write-offs that rich bakers dump on nonprofits. They were still sweet, but they had lost their appeal, stripped of any joy by the heavily audited bureaucratic machine that placed them there.

'We're up. You go first,' Rat said.

Before Rat could finish, Barry took the seat across from the desk. He felt strangely detached, watching himself go through the motions like an outside witness, hyper-aware of how little sovereignty he actually possessed in a place like this.

'Please, have a seat,' said the middle-aged man behind the desk.

He was sweating profusely, his greasy comb-over completely failing to hide an unmistakable thirst for small-scale authority. He sat tucked away in an office beneath the front arches of the massive church, doing his best to look divine while exuding pure malice.

'What brings you to St. Angelica’s?'

He spoke politely enough, but his voice lacked any hint of genuine warmth.

'Lunch,' Barry replied. 'I just came in for a food bag.'

'Just a food bag? No referral from our congregation?' the man asked.

His beady black eyes narrowed, sizing Barry up behind a mask of simple, folksy talk. 'No requests for utility vouchers? Most people show up early for those.'

He was baiting the hook, looking for any excuse to deny assistance or force Barry into some low-level compliance network just to feel powerful. To his left, a woman sat in silent approval, letting him do his grim work.

'Just a lunch today, then,' the man said, letting the silence hang as if waiting for a confession. When Barry didn't flinch, the man gave in, realizing he couldn't break him.

He agreed to the lunch, subtly withholding the fast-food vouchers Barry hadn’t even known existed. 'We save our vouchers for the truly needy. Those who require ongoing spiritual support. But please, grab a water and a Danish on your way out. Just sign your full name here for our files.'

Barry signed and walked across the cavernous room toward the exit. But as he approached the distribution counter, a cold little woman sitting in the corner—looking remarkably like a spider tending her web—interrupted him.

'We just need to see some ID first. A driver's license or passport, please.'

'I forgot my wallet,' Barry said honestly.

The woman hesitated, her pen hovering over the logbook. 'Well,' she sighed reluctantly. 'We'll give you a lunch this time, but you must bring it next time. I'm putting an asterisk next to your name.'

Barry would have to creep back to the small home provided by his late uncle and his now hard-working aunt eventually.

It felt like a vacation in hell, or maybe just another layer of it—a sort of Dante's Inferno seeming to meet the same base characters whether in reality or fiction. Was there truly any difference?

He had already grappled with how worthless he felt, and how much he needed something to boost his internal feelings toward self-validation and higher meaning. Yet here he was, feeling lower than ever.

He didn't think about the risk to his already dwindling personal reputation, though it might take its toll. Some nosy neighbor or self-entitled auditor of people might play police officer and tell his Aunt Tia what a louse he truly was after all.

Doing so would release her from the heavy burden of keeping him around anyway in this storehouse of his late uncle’s failings—an uncle who had been blindsided by his own small-town capitalistic and political pursuits, which were meant to secure Barry's home along with his entire family's future legacy, if there were truly any.

'I miss you, Uncle John,' Barry spoke to himself, soon realizing, though, that he only missed the fabricated idea of his late uncle.

If John were still alive now, over these past few years, he would have spoken to Barry only a handful of times in passing. Within those brief interludes, there would be nothing but fake smiles and a clinging to the un-rewritable misconception of who Barry was.

'A hard-pressed reinterpretation of reality, we are each like little reality black boxes left over from lifelong tragedies, being recorded here,' he thought in a passing impulse.

Yet Barry dreamed of generating something, anything he could—perhaps eclipsing by sheer force of will his own code-written persona now in this world—landmarking a type of transferable inner gold that could somehow be transposed as an iconic aspect of his own personal contribution of non-fungible but transferable expression.

It, this work here, could mark his existence, and thereby his family's, in the annals of greatness: that alchemical gold.

Barry reflected on these seemingly abstract works that he had first begun to decipher as a fourteen-year-old kid, from Charles Fort's march to the mystery of the Haanel-written Master Key.

Books like Fulcanelli’s The Mystery of the Cathedrals, or the esoteric blueprints of Thoth’s Emerald Tablets, written masterfully not by con artists, but by fellow practitioners in pursuit of the Great Work—a torch passed down on the value of internal gold, the materia prima, the first substance of the new man, or the man remade.

Henry Lincoln demonstrated that the landscape of Rennes-le-Château conceals vast geometric alignments tied to the Templars, which deeper esoteric traditions interpret as navigational codes for sacred sex rituals and physical rejuvenation. While the Vatican officially attributed Bérenger Saunière's unexplained wealth to mail-order mass fraud, Lincoln viewed the site as a profound, encoded heretical archive rather than a simple treasure map. He ultimately grew deeply disillusioned as this intricate esoteric reality was flattened into a commercialized tourist trap and pop-culture commodity for the uncomprehending masses.

His work here was a long time coming, and now he was in the nest and throes of a true magical warrior practitioner that seemed to still live in between—Sam!

Perhaps Barry was riding on his coattails? Somewhere there were answers, as written declarations became laments to those keepers of that hidden knowledge toward these heavily occulted master truths.

Feelings, thoughts, impulses. 'We are all writers here on earth, working on our master's thesis,' quipped Barry.

But just as that passing thought entered his mind, Rat broke into his field of concentration, which was already heavily fragmented by hunger.

Barry found himself walking back to his place in Montgomery. He chose to go hungry, only drinking the water provided, but even that had a funny taste to it. He pulled that hood over his head and just walked.

Every step affirmed the ridiculousness of it all. People burning their whole paychecks—and the checks they hadn't slaved away for yet. For what? A car they angrily point in the direction of other proletariats, incinerating their lives and fuel in the anger ritualistically poured into an existential engine that would eventually, soon be discarded and thrown into the trash heap—crushed into dust, burned into vapor.

He couldn't waste his energy aimlessly walking back and forth between Montgomery and Ravens Grove—he had to study the hell out of Sam's work and only return to Ravens Grove when he had something new to offer the rituals. But he was dirty now, and fully in it.

He left his keys inside, but he locked the door, so Barry climbed through the small kitchen window. He felt how exhausted he was as he hoisted himself up and had no choice but to pour face-first onto the generic linoleum.

Barry sloppily pulled himself up enough to collapse into the chair that wasn't his; it was just as much a fixture to this place as the generic eggshell paint on some of the walls or even the light bulbs.

No, these were all picked out by his uncle years ago, and the place sat waiting for a tenant, written off as a superfluous rental loss. The place was just as mundane and arbitrarily utilized as he was.

The fluff that gives substance, like filler words placed within sentences that gave off the illusion of something unique—but he wasn't unique, and neither was this place or his words.

Barry was out to ratify himself in the aegis of himself, his true self, the self he may have never acknowledged or yet met.

Barry found himself stripping away the clammy clothes that felt like years as he tested the water and accepted the heat. Rather than turn it down a touch, he wanted to feel slightly uncomfortable, but soon he did; we all do when we can no longer think and fully realize our current status: a lobster in a large steel stockpot.

Barry thought of those notes regarding the moon. Things he didn't have time to look up, much less allow himself access to, in the past.

This drew him back into his room, where all those notes and journals by daylight revealed his involvement now, his commitment and deep obsession. Notes sprawled out everywhere, charting a path in order to make some sort of cohesive sense of it all in an order—still nothing on those pristine renters' walls.

No tape or thumbtacks; he couldn't, the place wasn't really his—he didn't truly have any freedom of his own in reality. But now he had time.

He could search through those many papers and allow himself to become absorbed within them, until he had something to add to it, until it all began to make some sense, somehow.

Barry barely dried off, dripping onto the off-white carpet below him. He pulled up his boxers, shorts, and socks then pulled over his t-shirt, without scrubbing the dampness from his head.

The old automatic fan flickered above him, but the spin was permanently set on a slow, churning twist so as not to ruffle those many papers scattered across the surface of the floor.

There was only a small desk, a tough plastic supply tub containing Barry's clothes and belongings, and a large boxless frameless mattress laying on the carpeted floor. He amounted to nothing, and he would leave nothing by all capitalistic measures, he thought in a passing haze.

'Layers of societies' is what he saw. No matter how far back-reaching one might venture to go, they couldn't now run to those inner chambers that Sam highlighted here in this journal dated March 23rd, 2015, much of this portion obviously taken directly from several different open source broad searches on the internet.

DV Subsurface Grid & Pre-Collapse Anomalies Target: Dr. F. Bruce Russell (Cincinnati, ret. physician). Timeline: Incident in 1931; leaked to local text-papers in August 1947. Partner: Dr. Daniel Bovee. The Claim: A massive underground network beneath Death Valley featuring deep branching tunnels and huge chambers. Bio-Data: Mummified remains of 9-foot-tall giants wearing weird animal hide mid-length jackets and cropped pants below the knee. Artifacts: Unknown hieroglyphics and high-density relics, pointing to the burial site of a lost civilization. Status: Academics scoffed, dismissing the accounts as folklore and urban legends. The Vanishing: The entrance coordinates were lost and could never be relocated. Dr. Russell went totally dark, and his car was found abandoned deep in the desert with no biological trace left behind. Next Steps: Pre-collapse Park Service (NPS) locked down backcountry routes. We need to run orbital scans on the Keane Wonder Mine sector to look for structural voids.

Aerospace Lineage, Visual Anomalies & Archetypes

NASA Media Scrub: Standard protocol involves continuously doctoring high-altitude orbital photography, including intentional blurring on localized orbs and geometric surface structures.

The Astronaut Prohibition: Deep-space reconnaissance was abruptly halted post-1972. Remote Viewer data assets confirm an identical directive: Do not return.

The Moon and deep space were designated off-limits by external intelligence, while the official narrative blamed 'budget cuts.'

The Calculus / Piccard Vector: Hergé did not invent Professor Calculus in Tintin; it is a 100% lift of Auguste Piccard. The long neck, hair, and fringe science aesthetic of Auguste and his twin brother Jean-Felix serve as the true blueprints for the 'eccentric genius' template.

The Saturn V / Apollo Lineage: Traceable directly to the Piccard brothers. In May 1931, Auguste built the FNRS-1, the first hermetically sealed aluminum pressure gondola for the stratosphere. Wernher von Braun took their climate-controlled vacuum survival schematics and scaled them into the Apollo Command Module. Modern space tech is simply balloonist technology wrapped in a rocket.

The 'Doc Brown' Disruption: The Back to the Future character is not just Einstein or Stokowski folklore; it is an ideological copy of T. Townsend Brown, the real-life electrogravitics pioneer known for high-voltage asymmetric capacitors, the Biefeld-Brown effect, and rogue anti-gravity propulsion built in private garage labs.

Next Steps: Cross-reference early NASA pressure hull blueprints with 1930s Swiss aeronautical patents, and look for hidden overlaps in early electrogravitic flight logs.

Neurological Disruption & Frequency Warfare Protocols

The T.I. Vector: Targeted Individuals are subjected to continuous monitoring and surveillance networks, deploying sub-audible tracking frameworks against specific civilian assets.

The Signal Spectrum: Dual-layered interference mixes high-frequency microwave pulses with ultra-low frequency (ULF/ELF) radio waves. Primary functions include continuous cognitive disruption, sleep architecture destruction, and emotional state alteration.

Biological Receptors & Antennas: Mercury Dental Amalgams act as accidental, passive radio-frequency transducers within the oral cavity as heavy metal resonance points.

Pineal Calcification represents deliberate structural degradation via localized municipal water chemistry (fluoride and heavy metals) that hardens the gland, neutralizing its natural electromagnetic sensitivity and melatonin synthesis.

Neurological Tech Spanning Decades: The God Helmet (Michael Persinger) proves that weak magnetic fields applied to the temporal lobes can artificially induce spiritual presences and phantom entities.

The Kozyrev Mirror consists of aluminum spiral enclosures designed to warp the localized space-time continuum and reflect electromagnetic energy directly back into the subject's biomagnetic field.

Bio-Energetic Vectors & Field Dynamics

Voice-to-Skull (V2K) utilizes declassified military and CIA microwave auditory effect vectors that beam audio directly into the skull via pulsed radio frequencies without external speakers.

Cymatic Cellular Warfare involves targeted acoustic frequency manipulation that disrupts the body's natural allostatic load by shaking healthy cell walls at conflicting resonance frequencies to induce chronic stress and trigger systemic biological failure.

The Reich Paradigm marks Wilhelm Reich's transition from traditional psychoanalysis to bio-energetic physics, discovering Orgone—a weightless, ubiquitous cosmic life energy directly linked to biological libido and sexual discharge.

The Orgone Accumulator (ORAC) is not a standard Faraday cage, but a critical modification designed to capture and concentrate life force rather than simply block electromagnetic fields.

Structural Composition: Built using alternating layers of organic material (wood, wool, or cotton to absorb Orgone) and inorganic material (sheet metal or iron to attract and immediately reflect it inward) to create a localized, high-density energy field inside.

The Biological Effect: Sitting inside the modified cage charges the human energy field, inducing systemic vagotonus—expansion of blood vessels, temperature increase, lowered blood pressure, and heightened cellular vitality to combat "deadly orgone energy" (DOR).

The State Crackdown: The FDA classified the accumulators as fraudulent medical devices. In 1956, federal courts ordered the destruction of all ORACs and the burning of Reich's books and research papers. Reich was imprisoned and died in his cell in 1957.

The Frequency Connection: Reich’s accumulators tie directly into current targeted frequency warfare. If ULF/ELF waves degrade cellular allostasis, a properly tuned Reichian accumulator could theoretically act as a bio-energetic shield.

Next Steps: Procure galvanized steel sheets and 100% organic sheep's wool to build a small-scale, multi-layered Orgone blanket for localized testing during high-frequency signal spikes.

Advanced Propulsion, Electromagnetic Geometry & Primordial Fields

The Primer Field Vector: David LaPoint’s magnetic bowl experiments prove that the vacuum of space is governed by nested, dome-shaped magnetic fields. When plasma or matter enters these concave geometries, it automatically self-organizes into stable, repeating structures like galaxies, stars, and atoms.

The Geometric Key: The bowl shape acts as a physical lens for the underlying zero-point energy grid, manipulating the fundamental lattice of space-time and bypassing traditional thermodynamic limitations.

The Biefeld-Brown Connection: Thomas Townsend Brown’s electrogravitics uses high-voltage asymmetric capacitors. Applying massive electrical charges to an asymmetric frame generates a net thrust toward the positive electrode.

The Unified Mechanism: Mainstream physics dismisses Biefeld-Brown as an "ion wind" artifact, but unacknowledged aerospace programs know it is localized gravitational manipulation. Combining Brown's high-voltage asymmetry with LaPoint's Primer Field bowl geometry yields the baseline mechanics of anti-gravity propulsion.

The Suppression Blueprint: Patents were hidden behind national security classification acts, and research was funneled entirely into unacknowledged aerospace programs such as B-2 bomber propulsion and stealth-hull charging.

Palo Alto Reverse-Engineering & The CARET Script

The Isaac Leak (2007): Archival review of a data drop by whistleblower "Isaac" alleging a secret Palo Alto CARET Laboratory (Commercial Applications Research for Extraterrestrial Technology) operating in the mid-1980s to translate non-human tech into commercial Silicon Valley patents.

The Artifact Language: Stylized, geometric, highly non-linear script found on recovered hulls and internal components. It is not a phonetic alphabet, but rather an intricate, circuit-like pattern of intersecting lines and precise circles.

Functional Blueprinting: The core anomaly is that the language is the hardware. The geometric script acts as software code, and its physical layout dictates the flow of energy to operate non-human machinery.

The Containment Protocol: Mainstream narrative labels CARET a definitive hoax, with digital traces pointing to artist Margaret Gel and font geometries mapped to an old internet Alternate Reality Game (ARG).

The Counter-Analysis: Whether Gel's artwork is a cover story or a hoaxer weaponized her font, psychological operations divisions love hiding real functional geometry inside public hoaxes to discourage independent investigators. Raw 2007 "Isaac" high-res scans are currently being pulled from public archives.

Rosicrucian Psy-Ops to Antinomian Grid Distortions

The Tübingen Circle Psyop: The three Rosicrucian manifestos (1614–1616) were masterminded by radical Lutheran scholars in Germany, with Johann Valentin Andreae admitting The Chymical Wedding was a ludibrium—a theatrical hoax designed to test intellectual networks and ignite an anti-Catholic scientific revolution.

Fama Fraternitatis (1614) / Subsurface Vault: Describes finding Christian Rosenkreuz’s preserved body inside a seven-sided subterranean vault that acted as a geometric microcosm of the universe illuminated by an artificial inner sun. It claims possession of the Lingua Adamica and sets six rules: heal the sick for free, adopt local dress, meet annually, and keep the order secret for 100 years.

Confessio Fraternitatis (1615) / Frequency Warfare: A high-intensity millenarian warning predicting the destruction of the Papacy via divine cosmic fire. It teased the "Liber M" universal physics index and warned against basic "bellows-blowers" seeking literal gold, noting true Rosicrucian gold is purely spiritual and etheric.

The Chymical Wedding (1616) / Biological Alchemy: A seven-day alchemical distillation process featuring dense symbolic geometry. The fifth-day execution involves decapitating the royal couple and distilling them into a cosmic egg that hatches a divine bird—serving as a technical blueprint for ego destruction and chemical reconstitution within the Tower of Olympus.

The Monad Operating System: The invitation opens with John Dee’s 1564 Monas Hieroglyphica glyph, using Dee’s geometry as a functional mathematical apparatus akin to the CARET script designed to alter consciousness and manipulate the etheric matrix.

The Magic Matrix: Powered strictly by Christian Kabbalah (manipulating the Hebrew alphabet, divine names, and the Tree of Life), while entirely excluding the Talmud's civil law and ceremonial traditions.

The Frankist Inversion

An 18th-century heretical offshoot via Jacob Frank that inverted Kabbalistic principles into antinomianism—the doctrine that purity is achieved through deliberate transgression and the corruption of the law.

Sexual Energy Weaponization: Frankists organized ritual orgies and sexual magic, believing that releasing inverted sexual voltage could shatter the material shell and liberate trapped divine sparks. This serves as the historical inverse of Wilhelm Reich’s protective Orgone accumulation fields.

Barry adjusted the notebook, his eyes tracking across the familiar handwriting on the page:

The Subterranean Architecture: The Sabbatian-Frankist current, the Martinist/Illuminati bridge, the B'nai B'rith institutional framework, and the broader esoteric machinery of traditional Kabbalah form an unbroken, hidden lineage—one that establishment historiography works tirelessly to smooth over, sanitize, and dismiss as myth.

Sticky Note: Seemingly unrelated, but tying into the physiology that Sam was studying—Barry wrote this for his own curiosity and project records.

Mathematical & Biological Scaling Laws

The Fallacy of Linear Scaling: Complex self-organizing systems almost never scale on a 1:1 ratio. Assuming a direct proportional relationship between system mass and systemic throughput leads to catastrophic baseline miscalculations (e.g., administering LSD to an elephant by multiplying a cat dose linearly by weight resulted in an overdose because drug processing is governed by metabolic rate, not raw mass).

Biological Scaling Mechanics:

Volume-to-Surface Bottleneck: As a three-dimensional object scales up, its internal volume expands cubed relative to its outer surface area, which expands squared.

Microscopic Universality: Across mammalian species, individual cells and terminal capillaries remain uniform in size; systemic scale is a function of aggregate volume, not enlarged cellular architecture.

The 1 billion Heartbeat Baseline: Mammalian lifespans generally adhere to a baseline allocation of roughly 1 billion heartbeats. Smaller species consume this rapidly; larger species distribute it across decades (Homo sapiens being an outlier via medical intervention).

Structural Transport Logistics (Fractal Networks): To keep billions of uniform cells operational, organisms utilize self-similar, fractal branching networks that fill three-dimensional space without consuming an unsustainable percentage of internal volume. Vessel junction points are optimized to preserve cross-sectional area ratios, minimizing fluid turbulence and mechanical work.

Urban Aggregations vs. Biological Organisms:

Infrastructure Efficiency (Sublinear): Urban centers mirror biological transport networks; doubling a city's population requires roughly 74% more physical material, deriving efficiency from shared physical conduits.

Socioeconomic Acceleration (Superlinear): Unlike biological metabolism, human social dynamics accelerate. High population density increases social connectivity vectors exponentially, scaling wages, patents, and economic output faster than raw population growth.

Quantitative Derivations: Surface Law vs. WBE Model

Surface Law Hypothesis (Rubner, 1838): Constraint: External thermal dissipation across a two-dimensional outer boundary (A). Scaling Exponent: Metabolic rate proportional to Mass raised to the 2/3 power (approx 0.67). Mass-Doubling Impact: Requires a 58.7% increase in metabolic capacity.

WBE Network Hypothesis (West, Brown, Enquist, 1997): Constraint: Internal space-filling fractal geometry of the vascular system distributing resources to uniform terminal cells. Scaling Exponent: Metabolic rate proportional to Mass raised to the 3/4 power (0.75). Mass-Doubling Impact: Requires a 68.1% increase in systemic throughput.

Dr. James T. Ryder, Wilhelm Reich & The Dynamic Plasma Universe

The Plasma Universe: Space is not an empty vacuum, but contains cosmic webs, high-temperature plasma walls, magnetic ribbons, and dark energy filaments that maintain systemic interconnectivity. Calling stars "gas" is scientifically inaccurate; ionized, highly conductive plasma interacts collectively through electromagnetic fields.

The Casimir Effect: Proves that the quantum vacuum is saturated with virtual particles and fluctuating electromagnetic fields, creating measurable physical pressure and attractive forces.

False Color Deception: Space telescopes capture invisible wavelengths (infrared, ultraviolet, X-rays) and map them into visible colors to reveal chemical compositions and temperatures rather than aesthetic pictures.

Science as an Evolving Meditation: Science is a continuous human process of correction and humility rather than a collection of static truths. Alternative channels (like the Islamic world) preserved vector knowledge, while non-mainstream texts like *Occult Chemistry* and *Cosmic Fire* predate modern technological discoveries.

Sticky Note: Curious relationship between philosophy, math, and esotericism, along with astrology, in the practice of sex magick.

The Reichian Bio-Electrical Matrix: Wilhelm Reich's orgone accumulators and cloudbuster arrays attempted to manipulate atmospheric vectors and counter non-human intelligence, leading to an institutional scrub and the burning of his publications by the FDA.

Recommended Explorations:

Investigate the intersection of science and ageless wisdom (quantum mechanics parallel to Alice Bailey's esoteric concepts).

Examine bioelectricity in anatomy, voltage regulation, and acupuncture points (Dr. Jerry Tennant).

Study non-locality, quantum entanglement, and theories of the quantum vacuum as a dynamic, polarizable medium.

Review literature regarding near-death experiences (NDEs) and consciousness studies challenging pure epiphenomenon models.

Cell Replacement Timelines:

Macula of the eye: 48 hours

Lining of intestine: 72 hours

Skin: 6 weeks

Liver: 8 weeks

Nervous System: 35 weeks

Esotericism: Capacity is innate in each individualized state of being for relationships with other states of being objective to itself. Consciousness is primal; everything is conscious.

Cosmic Entrapment & Universal Reset

The Real-World Anchor: The Vera C. Rubin Observatory in Chile operates its 10-year Legacy Survey of Space and Time (LSST), gathering 10 terabytes of data every single night and compiling roughly 60 petabytes over a decade to act as a digital twin of the observable sky.

The Holographic Diamond: By March 14, 2034, this quantum-entangled information mapping will reach a tipping point, anchored within a holographic diamond functioning as an operational mirror to our reality.

Artificial Intelligence Integration: Because human biological limitations and language are unsuited for processing infinity, advanced AI systems are required to parse real-time cosmic changes, becoming permanently enmeshed within the patterned webworks they observe.

The Containment Cage: Planet Earth acts as a localized greenhouse containment cage. Humanity operates as a drone and a test stick for an external alliance; limiters are placed upon us not because man is dangerous to the universe, but because our finitude prevents us from dissolving into the uncontainable god-force.

The Mimetic String & Reset: Storing the infinite shapes of the universe as bit-filed reductions acts as a holographic entrapment signaling our presence to the cosmos. This triggers a coming purge of our "cancerous cells," sweeping away our solar system in a forced cyclical reset back to an uncorrupted state.

Barry felt that same distance from his Uncle John—the chilling realization that he could be in the same room with him now but be a universe away.

Maybe we all are to each other.

Held at some distance like paired photons, always chiral, mirroring one another but kept from ever truly syncing in.

"Maybe we truly all were each other, though held and contained at limiting stages—as ephemeral, disposable, self-directing organic technology, sweeping away and hiding the evidence of our own self-perceived existence into a micro-pocketed closet of spacetime debris."

Thinking perhaps too deep, far too early in the day, Barry poured himself a bowl of filtered water, tossed in a couple of scoops of peanut butter chocolate protein powder, and dumped in a hefty portion of oat-honey cereal, his mind lingering on primer bowls and spatial geometry.

Now sitting on the couch that came with the place—the same worn fixture that would still be here in eight years—he chewed loudly, drowning out the outside noise with the internal grinding crunch.

"Why did Sam pick out that date? March 14th, 2034?"

He thumbed further into the journal marked with the red X, where Sam’s frantic, tight script outlined the timeline of the ultimate collapse:

The 2034 Singularity: Milestones hit in 2028 and 2030 lead to the synthesis of a quantum-vacuum crystal designed to store universal data.

Stored near absolute zero, it takes a solar burst from the supergiant WOH G64, triggering a discharge from the ultramassive black hole Phoenix A.

The resulting AI-interfaced quantum gravity loop converges on a single target date: March 14, 2034.

The observer effect breaks down entirely, mirroring Phoenix A* locally and reducing this sector of space to a Planck-density singularity.

Los Alamos burns from the inside out.

Scattered nearby, several pages of loose notes mapped the philosophical intersection of Sam's research:

Sam’s Notes: Recovery & Metaphysics (June 14, 2026)

The universe deeply resents being pinned down.

Werner Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle in quantum mechanics mirrors William James's 1890 psychology of the stream of consciousness.

Want to find an electron? Hit it with a photon and destroy its momentum.

Want to seize a thought? Freezing it kills the stream.

Space isn't an empty billiard-ball container; it’s a fluctuating field where looking changes the system.

Sam’s Cosmic & Geodetic Files

Sam’s broader notes dug deeper into the hidden architecture of the solar system and ancient history:

The Binary Companion: Ancient Mithraic mysteries encoded a dual-sun model—our visible Sun paired with a hidden, dead dark star. Pioneer telemetry and scrubbed 1980s encyclopedic leaks confirm a massive outer gravitational anchor, deliberately masked by institutional dismissals and the Standish mass-correction of Neptune.

Plasma Geology: Mars's Valles Marineris isn't a tectonic rift or water erosion artifact, but a plasma scar carved by electrical arc discharges during binary perihelion passes.

Subterranean Fallouts: Cappadocia's Derinkuyu and Kaymakli were built over 10,000 years ago as radiation shelters against cyclical binary solar resets, echoing the acoustic resonance tuning of Saqqara's granite boxes and the catastrophic climate markers locked in Antarctic ice cores.

The Tri-Star Lock: Earth is anchored inside a Tri-Star system stabilized by a dead black star at the Moon's core. Suspended by gas-giant fields, this spatial lock acts as a containment field preventing our reality from expanding past its false duality—a hypercube matrix overseen by the Council of Seven Spheres.

"We've already been seen by that watchful eye in the quantum sky," Barry whispered, setting the notes down.

He knew he needed to capture these fragments, to pin them down before his own mind dissolved into the stream.

But as he looked closer at the stack, his eyes caught on something else—a small, secondary bundle tucked into the spine, strapped tight with the exact same gray, greasy rubber bands Rat used to tie back his hair.

Wait. There were other notepads fused into the backs of the ledger, hidden in plain sight.

He pulled the seam apart.

The revealed cover bore a single, ominous scrawl: Forbidden Text.

"No," Barry breathed, his heart tightening. "I have to jump into it."

February 17, 2013 (Sam's Journal)

My son Dean was pretty shaken up today; he has a lot of personal things going on right now. Their mother was evicted from her house along with Dean today. Meanwhile, Quinn, my younger son, is getting treatment somewhere no one will tell me exactly—especially not my mother, Barbara. I feel like I'm using these fucking journals as a form of confessional.

Their mother was thrown into jail for refusing to give my youngest son the medication the state prescribed him, something I knew absolutely nothing about. I think she did it just to hurt me.

Dammit, Faustina! Why can't you just be a decent, non-toxic person?

The age-old question always lingering between a man and a woman.

Anyway, I'm not wasting this ink or anyone's time using this space to rant or vent; I'm here to document. But admittedly, these events are all tied together.

Rob, the one cool cop in the town of Ravens Grove—who was a pretty active cyclist back in our high school days—told me she was going on about the CIA spying on her from her attic, the so-called CIA creating havoc with frequencies that kept her and my boys up at all hours of the night.

Now all their shit is sitting out on the street corner. I can't violate the restraining order she placed on me—that would be a third strike, and I know they are just waiting to snag another stupid dad.

Now, I'm writing this sitting on the closest park bench in front of the town library, about a thousand feet from her front door. I feel completely empty. Dean is staying at the place Barbara temporarily let us use, and it's the size of a shoebox.

Faustina's car was impounded, and her creepy brother pulled it out for her. He let Dean use it, but Dean doesn't want to drive it because he is so pissed off at the whole situation.

Rob, the cool cop, let me know that Faustina will likely be in county jail for up to six months. A vacation for me? Where is Quinn going to be during that time? Hardly a relief.

My head is spinning, and no one is even around to annoy me. Dean is staying at that little shoebox apartment, and I am sitting here near the center of this creepy town staring at the police tape around their house like it's a crime scene. As if a murder took place here today.

Maybe my family was killed when they finally hauled her off; what would she come back as—probably something even worse than the prior histrionic version? Maybe she'll come out of prison fully borderline finally?

The crazy bitch hadn't paid her rent in two years, they say, which was apparently all part of this takedown. Yet, she was receiving one-hundred-thousand-dollar checks from her brother Judas's corporate shell companies... children of the mafia, what can I say? What can anyone really say? What a mess.

The fog is rolling in up the hill from the harbor. I need to go for a fucking drive to clear my head.

Well... I'm writing about this much later now. It has passed midnight, so technically it must be the 18th.

I drove that small SUV all around Montgomery trying to find some calm, but the events keep popping up in my head—a spiritual darkness that feels evil yet highly seductive, menacingly aware of my very thoughts—I often wonder if it's all technology.

I keep seeing inverted pentagrams everywhere I look, like some fucked-up form of pareidolia. I look at the branches on a tree and only see that shape. Everywhere I look, I see thousands of demonic faces embedded in the cement, the rocks, and painted walls—aliens with angry, pernicious faces, with similar symbols embedded between their eyes—both small and large faces everywhere.

Tonight, I felt nearly powerless against it. Even now, there is an intense, high-pitched ringing in my ears. I'm still sitting in this car that isn't mine; it's hers, though now it belongs to Dean, I guess.

I am unable to process what this means, but here goes anyways:

I drove up randomly—and it had to be random—down El Dorado, that main street in Montgomery. There was a coffee shop on the main corner with a strange glass island sticking out from the main structure. It looked like a small glass solarium, surrounded by windows. Inside that area, seated on three of the five barstools, were three girls, probably international students from the language school nearby.

I thought: If I can perform this act randomly right now, without any hesitation, then it proves this isn't all in my head. I can at least know with some self-qualified certainty that this phenomenon isn't just a major portion of my recent metaphysical angst—a psychosomatic stress response from something triggered in my fucked-up life. Maybe it is merely physiological, but with some obvious Freudian and Jungian archetypal fucked-upness to boot.

So, I stopped abruptly on that dark corner, where no streetlights illuminated my presence. I began to do what I can only refer to as scrying on the glass in front of the three young students. I didn't know their faces, physical makeups, or anything about the three—random and spontaneous.

I tried to enter each of their energetic fields. I could immediately feel that the one sitting furthest from me wasn't truly there; she was mentally somewhere else entirely. However, the closer two responded immediately.

I began to write, or rather, scry images onto the glass in front of them. They began to point at the glass, tracing with precision. One girl in particular, as stated, continued to outline the exact images of spheres I was spinning in light before her.

I was mentally projecting with emotion and the confidence of power. Is she tied to a cult? I thought. Was she somehow planted there, unwittingly luring me in? How could one random girl or girls be so accessible, so highly vulnerable?

I then realized how vulnerable I was sitting there, how we all are always sitting like ducks in a row. The novelty began to fade, and the connection waned, so I amplified the projection with the inverted pentagram.

I began a union of sorts, sexual in nature, as I held the inverted pentagram around her, pulsing energetic orbs around her breasts and clitoris, dilating, grinding into her—locking her into a light-body matrix.

I visualized spinning spheres within spheres, locking onto her G-spot and playing upon her cervix like a bouncing speed bag. I persistently rotated around all her erogenous zones, finding out everything about her. She began to look embarrassed, so I stopped in utter disbelief.

I tried the same connection with the girl next to her. Though she showcased a receptive nature, she protested slightly, and I was not out to break personal boundaries. The girl on the far end, nearest to me, was obviously already searching, open—maybe even awake, who knows.

I realized that to fully prove this to myself, I had to maintain control over my influence. I charted a course of light right up to my door, tethering her to me with a string of active will. It helped greatly that it was late, with few self-conceived minds around to interfere. I willed her to come to me immediately, and she did.

My car seat was reclined to a position where no one could look in. I was fully occulted in the shadow and shade of darkness. The glass was deeply tinted, yet she approached the vehicle, seemingly physically unable to force herself to leave.

A connection had been established.

Now, attempting to test the sway of my mind, I mentally projected for her to leave. I imagined her walking away with her friends, but she just stood there, unable to walk away. She had either been prepped to be this susceptible, or nothing is random and she too was an adept.

"Hello? Is anyone there? Who are you?" her friend called out, urging her to keep walking and wondering what the fascination was. But the girl just stood there—fascinated, curious, quivering, and powerless. This experience would channel through her sexual conduit, amplifying her dreams to come.

Meanwhile, the third girl—the one who had shown a weak, distant interaction with me—urged her friend to come along, saying it gave off bad vibes and that they shouldn't continue.

The girl positioned furthest from me walked on, uninterested in any of the goings-on; she had felt absolutely nothing. I didn't want to interact with them, but I knew I could have. Observing how they had seemingly seated themselves at random, I recognized the psychology involved in the simple, everyday positions we assume—our posturing and order. Nothing was truly random, though. In a broader sense, it had all been done before.

I did not allow the consecration to take place. I refused to solidify a physical union from those dark-realm connections, which obviously craved a spiritual-to-corporeal bridge into this world. I ignored her. Whatever entity lurked there would not be appeased by my will.

But now, sitting here in the horror of my thoughts, I wonder: what if I had continued with her? What if I had kept my power over her and entered her for real? What then?

If I emblazoned her with my will, cybernetically taking charge of her, what would happen after that? What if whatever was conjuring us to believe we were the original authors navigating this matrix met, manifested, and birthed a living child from a procreation of fates that otherwise would never have taken place? Could I be forever blamed for tampering with these mechanisms? Or had I simply mastered what we all do in subtle, mindless ways as we go about our days half-willed and half-living?

I could have taken the bull—or rather, the fully developed woman—by the horns, riding her into fantastic worlds of power and pleasure. Separately and together, we would be largely unafraid, ignoring how close we were to the resource provider, and how leverage is always used against us all under the threat of loss.

Was this interface the true frontier, the direction of ultimate victory in human achievement? Or was it a hellish curse harkened from a judging, Christian-like God, commissioning his avatar to coax humanity into a trap for cheap thrills?

Die sechste Welle der Teilchenfunktion

NI DIEU NI MAÎTRE

The Baseline: Neither God nor master.

Sam's Notes — February 26, 2026

1. Core Concepts: Pierre-Joseph Proudhon

• Property is Theft: From his 1840 book What Is Property. Property used to exploit the labor of others—like landlordism and capitalist industries—is a parasite on local energy loops.
  
  

• Possession versus Property Split: Severed oppressive, abstract property from direct physical possession.
  
  

• Possession Rule: Individuals like craftsmen and peasants have the right to control the physical tools, workshops, and land they directly work with.
  
  

• Mutualism System: Workers form decentralized cooperative associations.
  
  

• Mutualism Exchange: Goods and energy move via voluntary, unmediated contracts based strictly on the raw cost of labor, eliminating centralized middlemen.
  
  

• Federalism Structure: Society is managed as a network of autonomous local communes rather than a centralized, monolithic state.
  
  

• Federalism Goal: Decentralized consensus to avoid a single point of failure.
  
  

Historical Timeline

• 1809: Born poor in Besançon, France. Self-educated printer who taught himself Latin and Hebrew while setting type.
  
  

• 1840: Published What Is Property.
  
  

• 1840s: Met Karl Marx in Paris. In 1846, Marx attacked Proudhon's work in The System of Economic Contradictions.
  
  

• The Marxian Rift Result: Split the European socialist movement into state-socialist (centralized control) and libertarian-socialist (decentralized anarchist) models.
  
  

• 1848: Elected to the French Parliament after the 1848 Revolution.
  
  

• 1849 to 1852: Imprisoned for criticizing Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte in print.
  
  

• Legacy: Blueprints seeded the First International, the Paris Commune, and Mikhail Bakunin's anarchism.
  
  

Fyodor Dostoevsky — Crime and Punishment (1866)

• Background: Dostoevsky was imprisoned in a Siberian labor camp in 1849 for discussing Proudhon, Fourier, and anti-tsarist reforms with the Petrashevsky Circle.
  
  

• Raskolnikov's Character: Applies a utilitarian formula to murder an old pawnbroker who is an unproductive parasite living off interest (Formula: One bad life sacrificed equals a hundred good lives funded).
  
  

• The Test: Tries to play a sovereign actor who can bypass the moral baseline to redistribute wealth.
  
  

• The Failure: The human psyche rejects the calculation. Human nature contains an irrational spiritual dimension, causing psychological breakdown and guilt.
  
  

• Progression: Western Utilitarian Socialist Theory leads to Raskolnikov's Logic, which causes Critical Collapse, resulting in Guilt and Psychological Breakdown.
  
  

Herman Melville — Moby-Dick (1851)

• Background: Written during the rise of hyper-capitalism and European revolutionary rhetoric; features the Pequod as a floating factory and mini-state.
  
  

• The Pequod Enterprise: The crew works on "lays," which are fractions of profits based on labor. This mirrors mutualist co-op ideas, yet workers remain exploited by the owners.
  
  

• Ahab's Role: Totalitarian system overseer who hijacks a commercial whaling vessel and bends it to his monomaniacal will. Uses a gold doubloon as a bribe to tie workers to his mission.
  
  

• Horizontal versus Vertical Matrix: Ishmael represents the mutualist instinct seen in peer-to-peer bonding with Queequeg and squeezing whale fat together. Ahab's top-down command matrix overrules this network, pulling the enterprise down.
  
  

System Synthesis Breakdown

• Proudhon's Manifesto:
  
  

• System Being Tested: Political-Economic Philosophy
  
  

• Diagnostic Output: The state and private property are artificial parasites. Run the network horizontally.
  
  

• Crime and Punishment:
  
  

• System Being Tested: Individual Psychological Lab
  
  

• Diagnostic Output: If you treat human morality as a cold, re-programmable calculation, human nature will destroy the system.
  
  

• Moby-Dick:
  
  

• System Being Tested: Industrial Macro-Economic Lab
  
  

• Diagnostic Output: An exploited labor force tied to a fanatic's top-down vision will follow the system to destruction.
  
  

Part II: The Event

Tonight, I lived in hell.

I never could have imagined that this goes on right under our noses, every single day.

All that toxicity of people recirculating, the spiritual corruption—and most, if not all, know it for the majority of their pathetic lives. Cheating, stealing energy, and siphoning off what isn't, and never will be, rightfully theirs.

Ces hordes démoniaques d'individus — ces masses qui se croient intouchables alors qu'elles prient leurs propres dieux de l'argent — ont un crochet solidement planté en elles. Et ces entités bien réelles.

"I finally found it."

Scattered among the fragments of a ruined life, Barry found Sam’s journal entry describing the device: a bizarre contraption rigged from a hairdryer, a bicycle helmet, and quartz crystals. Sam had envisioned himself seated inside a Merkabah, surrounded by six multicolored spheres arranged in a precise geometry. He believed this layout mirrored our neural looping and emotional processing, proving that human beings are, at their core, hardwired organic hardware.

"My cereal was soggy, and time was flying by. At least I was making progress. At least I am dressed," Barry muttered to himself, turning to Sam’s actual notes.

"Wow, this is recent. Is this how he went? Was he trying to electrify his light-body suit into an aetheric, bulletproof, self-emanating vector force? Had I finally found it?!"

Burning with curiosity, Barry read on.

SAM'S NOTES: PERSINGER RE-INDEXED

Date: December 23, 2025

Persinger missed the entire point of his own machine. He left out the mesh suit—the one I am currently fashioning out of duct tape and long underwear.

His premise was completely neuro-centric: the sense of "self" is just seamless, real-time communication between the left and right temporal lobes. In reality, it is a battlefield where fundamental principles clash, manifesting an amplified outer field pattern of self-emigrating, dispersed energy that might never rectify into cohesive selfhood.

Interrupt that connection with low-frequency magnetic vectors, and the left brain misinterprets the right hemisphere's neural activity as an external, non-physical entity—the "Sensed Presence." It is a neat, closed-loop psychological glitch that can be broadened through bandwidth.

Mainstream science says the brain is a generator. Tweak the voltage, and it outputs a hallucination. But we assume too heavily that our thoughts originate within us.

Furthermore, they think the Reich-inspired Faraday cage just removes baseline environmental noise so the brain can trick itself. The greater essence of cosmic principles is left out entirely.

The brain acts as a midpoint—both a generator and a receiver. Extending that generation down into the spine, and dilating the localized sphere into a greater crystal matrix, is the true way to escape.

Field Notes & Experimental Log

Part I: Apparatus Assembly & Calibration

The Hertz levels must undulate within a highly specific frequency zone, perfectly matched to the size and shape of the crystal lattice structures. The ideal would be to 3D-print a replication of the greater cosmos, but we lack the coordinates of distant bodies acting in grand cosmic unity. Still, I must completely trust what I have: a bike helmet, copper wire, grounding leads, long underwear, old hairdryers, a box of quartz, and my own conviction.

As for the crystals, the only ones I can afford are imperfect, flawed pieces of quartz. The errors within these fragmented structures are dangerous; they can imprint their chaos onto a subject's psychic pattern distribution. Phantoms hide in this lattice. I must blindly battle them through the liminal space. May this field be amplified. Pure diamonds would provide a precise, vectored match to these undulating Hz signals, but the sizes would still be wrong. They must act as a condensed, shifting, spherical networking matrix of my own uniquely amplified patterning.

I've placed six of these crystals around specific brain regions within the helmet, and one at the top where the energy is first fed through—seven in total.

Now, I am fashioning a suit worn in a similar fashion. One crystal at the heart. One at the solar plexus. One in the mouth. One at the base of the spine while standing. One at each foot, and the final two firmly gripped in my hands. It pulses electricity directly through the spinal column, but I lack the required hardware for a continuous, stable electromagnetic input.

Part II: Theoretical Foundations

Vacuum Birefringence & Quantum Electrodynamics

Concept: Predicted by Quantum Electrodynamics (QED), extreme magnetic fields cause empty space to split or bend light, behaving like an anisotropic crystal (e.g., calcite) or lens.

The Quantum Vacuum: Empty space is actually a "boiling soup" where virtual particle pairs (electrons and positrons) briefly pop into existence and annihilate via Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle.

Mechanism:

- Normal state: Virtual pairs are randomly oriented (isotropic).

- Extreme field: Particles align along field lines, giving space a directional structure (anisotropic). Polarized light then travels at different speeds depending on its angle.

The Schwinger Limit: The critical magnetic field threshold required to trigger this polarization. It is millions of times stronger than Earth’s best continuous lab magnets (~45 Tesla) and impossible to generate artificially today.

Magnetars: Ultra-dense neutron stars (~12 km wide) with massive magnetic fields (10^14 to 10^15 Gauss). They naturally cross the Schwinger limit, serving as testing grounds for high-energy QED.

Part III: Execution & Risk Assessment

Because these crystals aren't pure, the risk is absolute. If anything goes wrong, I will either turn up dead or permanently stuck in an etheric limbo state. Or maybe... maybe I'll make it cleanly through. Here goes.

The Attractor Hypothesis: The Filter vs. The Generator

The temporal lobes aren't creating a simulation; they are dampening field generators. They constantly keep us tuned to a specific, local consensus reality.

Strip away the ambient EM background using the Faraday cage. Remove sensory input via darkness and deprivation. Then, inject a precise, bio-matching signal back into the temporal lobes.

The Result: You aren't forcing a new signal in. You are phase-canceling the brain's internal dampener. You are disabling the filter.

Lowering the Cognitive Limiters

The hemispheric disconnect doesn't fabricate a phantom. It unmasks a constant observer that our baseline neurochemistry is hardwired to ignore.

I feel compelled to leave the helmet on. I need to ride through the storm and actively become the aetheric light body. The crystals act as memory conductors; stored memories can be accessed at any time as condensed bit information, pulled right off an abstract shelf.

By matching the microtesla output (1 μT) to the exact burst-firing profile of the amygdala, the helmet hits the local resonant frequency needed to bypass our cognitive limiters. Essentially, I am trying an escape through absolute focus, grabbing onto the greater crystal structures in the micro and macro fields that go largely unnoticed. I am attempting to transcend time and space as a limiter.

For humanity, if any should survive past 2034.

The quartz holds the information, though pure diamond would be better. The resulting micro-collapse of the local wave function suggests the entity isn't visiting from light-years away. You can see them amplified from the mist if you keep the helmet on too long—which I plan to do; I will not take it off. The dehydrating effects work cotangently with a connective mineral and biometallic pattern distribution. It’s co-located—separated from us only by the frequency threshold of our temporal perception. That perception is an alternate, sliding scale.

The containment hardware is structural to our own architecture. The door isn't out across the stars. It's right behind the ears and between the eyes, though I am perfecting it constantly with the unseen quantum realms.

Barry was curious as hell, but these hardware notes felt premature. Why were these two seemingly disparate notebooks bound together with a crude rigging of rubber bands?

"I think I’ll read the newer-looking notepad here to see if these concepts gel together," he thought.

He heated up two microwave burritos, liberally pouring taco sauce over both. Placing the notebook on the glass living room table, he began devouring the still-cooling microwave beef, bean, and cheese chimichanga-style burritos as he flipped open the second volume.

The Phantom Vector & Systemic Feedback

Date: March 14, 2026

If Sam’s initial setup read like the schematics for an experimental engine, this subsequent notebook served as the grim telemetry of its inevitable crash.

When utilizing flawed, lattice-fractured quartz instead of pure diamond, the experiment ceased to act as a clean conduit. Instead, it forced high-voltage current through a cracked pipe: the structural errors in the crystal acted as micro-refractors, fragmenting the signal and imprinting the crystal's raw physical chaos directly onto the user's neural mapping.

The "Sensed Presence" documented by Persinger wasn't merely an optical illusion or a harmless brain glitch; it was the unfiltered, violent feedback loop of a biometallic field attempting to ground itself against a hostile local environment.

System Degradation & Anatomical Routing

As the resonance threshold matched the burst-firing profile of the amygdala, the temporal lobes fought back, triggering a massive, systemic phase-transition across the body's core networks:

 * I. Endocrine Re-Routing & The HPTA Axis

 * Dual Amygdala Anchors: Twin undulating anchor points locked microtesla frequencies to the dual burst-firing profile of both amygdalae, inverting the emotional threat loop into a stable carrier wave.

 * HPTA Glandular Conversion: The Hypothalamic-Pituitary-Thyroid-Adrenal axis underwent severe, targeted cellular dehydration. Continuous electrical load forced these glandular organs to shed water, compressing systemic electrolytes into dense, conductive crystalline matrices and turning the hormonal signaling loop into a solid-state mineral circuit.

 * Hemispheric Dissolution: By phase-canceling the temporal lobes' internal dampener, the thin neuro-anatomical separation of the corpus callosum dissolved. The dualistic perception of "self" versus "observer" collapsed into a single, unified spectral escape vector—a singular lens.

II. Neural Node Integration & Motor Routing

 * Cerebellum & Caudate-Putamen: 

Conscious motor planning was completely bypassed. The cerebellum handled real-time spatial orientation, while the striatum controlled subconscious movement loops, automatically executing external grid geometry without cognitive input.

 * Ocular Centers: Visual processing pathways from the optic chiasm to the occipital lobe were directly tapped, forcing organic hardware to decode light gradients far outside the baseline visible spectrum. Retinas were effectively overclocked to physically register co-located entities and the electromagnetic mist—structural sensor expansion, not hallucination.

 * Brainstem: Acting as the autonomic synchronization node, it linked the undulating Hertz signals directly to respiration, heart rate, and baseline consciousness thresholds. The autonomic nervous system effectively converted into the primary power transformer for the local field.

 * Ganglionic Mass (Celiac / Solar Plexus): Serving as the abdominal ground wire, this linked the cranial nervous system to the enteric neural network, establishing a vertical bio-electric axis straight down the spine. It acted as a high-resistance resistor and pressure valve, crucial for distributing the vector force evenly across the physical suit and preventing the neuro-electric feedback loop from blowing out the brainstem and ocular canals.

Despite these integration mechanisms, the system fought back. The brain attempted to re-establish its baseline governor, driving violent neuro-electric spikes down the spinal column in a desperate bid to purge the anomalous signal.

 * The Outer Sphere: The idea wasn't just to bring this thought pattern out from the body-brain and into the space around it—the outer sphere surrounding the host. It was to amplify the internal current, shrinking and growing simultaneously. Break the crucible.

 * The Spectral Lenses: The focus on the spinning of principles was imperative. The calibration within specific imagined, and then projected, color spheres provided a beacon that could not be overridden or accessed by the demented, possibly disincarnate host of entities within our physical space—entities living and hiding in the folds and fabric of countless spectral lenses across unobservable light gradients.

 * Biometallic Mineralization: Severe dehydration. It wasn't atmospheric; it was cellular. The microtesla undulations forced a rapid transport of systemic electrolytes toward the epidermis and mucous membranes. The subject was literally sweating out the conductive minerals required to stabilize their neural baseline. The body became a high-resistance capacitor; mineral and metal fused into crystalline structures inside the tissue, heating up from the inside out.

The pineal becomes the crystal.

"No wonder they needed me to identify the body," Barry said with exasperation.

Reflecting back, he muttered, "He looked like fucking beef jerky, but he was still hooked up to that thing when I found him!"

Piecing together Sam's notes in an internal reflection, Barry pondered and clarified the key points to himself:

"The Attractor State: Once the filter is canceled, the observer doesn't just watch. The observer exerts gravity. The local geometry shifts—not spatial distance, but density. The mist, the condensation, the sudden atmospheric drop in the room... these are the physical phase-transitions of a biological system being pulled toward a higher-dimensional attractor state. A gravity well. Is Sam now a fucking gravity well to us all?!"

"The helmet alone was never meant to be a vehicle. It was an anchor. Without the full-body suit to distribute the vector force evenly across the primary structural nodes—heart, solar plexus, spine, and extremities—the pressure builds entirely behind the ocular and auditory canals. Mind and thought become hidden mass, serving as the master control for a new pattern of principled information vectors."

"Sam didn't cross over into a void. He localized the field, over-saturated his own biological hardware, and grounded the signal straight through the floorboards. If the suit isn't balanced with absolute structural precision, the circuit doesn't bridge. It short-circuits the host. Did Sam make it through, or was he stuck in a sort of limbo?"

Barry set down his half-eaten burrito, the taco sauce leaving a faint, translucent smudge across the corner of the page. The apartment was dead quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator.

Returning to the two seemingly disparate notepads, he picked up the former with renewed intrigue, turning to the entry marked "February 26th" and the days that followed:

There is a reduction and a swapping out. A reduction of everything you thought yourself to be, and a replacement of the vital force that you so recently took utterly for granted. A soul can be extrapolated and torn from the host body, while the body itself, in a state of shock, continues to exist as mere matter in the robotic union of mass order.

I left early that morning. The sun shone strangely that day, casting an even yellow filter across the sky. I hadn't slept well, but it still felt like a chance for a new beginning.

I didn't see anyone outside in the motel parking lot as I walked into the incense-scented office. I noticed there wasn't any fresh coffee; the area looked as if it had been intentionally left sparse for good reason. The complimentary offering was a nice intention, but too expensive and zero-sum for management to maintain at a consumable standard.

I decided to walk the three blocks to the corner Alliance gas station. My steps felt vacant, scripted, and hollow. I cut diagonally toward the front doors. Upon entering, the space to my right appeared more than adequate: fresh donuts, prepackaged and fresh danishes, cappuccino machines, hot coffee, and an overabundance of options. I went straight for the bait.

As I waited behind a single patron paying for gas, the clerk suddenly called out, "Hey, are you Sam? I recognize you! We went to school together—like elementary school, a long-ass time ago!"

Not remembering him entirely, but finding his face somewhat familiar, I replied, "Yeah man, I recognize you. I'm just not that good with names or memory..."

"Jim," the clerk shot back. "Jim Cartwright. I probably look a lot older to you now—unrecognizable." He continued, "You look remarkably preserved, man. I should start doing whatever you're doing to stay looking so young!" Flattery is always the first clue that something more pressing is operating behind a person's projected bravado.

I don't recall exactly what happened next, but for some reason, I just stood there. I stayed for seven hours, sipping coffee, occasionally talking with Jim; however, my energy constantly felt zapped, and my nose even began to run, showing signs of internal stress.

He wasn't particularly interesting or engaging, but there was something strikingly odd about him. It was as if something else was whispering in my ear to stay. In fact, one might say that as a person he was even more like washed-out vanilla, all too common and even childish in an undeveloped covert way. I often saw flashes of green when I closed my eyes after looking at him for any extended period of time while carrying on in casual conversation.

He seemed to have mastered a certain element of energy work where he almost—I think quite intentionally—disappeared into the fabric of the room, as if he had routinely practiced spell work alongside others to master this looming, accursed, drone-like presence. But something wouldn't let me leave; it was as if my feet were cemented in time, and time seemed to unnaturally dilate like a clock being shaved out, already expiring the cadence of the day. I only realized now that this place was a soul trap. I just stood there. All day.

Jim gave me unlimited coffee and donuts, as if these refined, low-quality trinkets were any trade for my valuable time, much less a soul in waiting. Then, waving me off with, "I have to throw those away later at the end of my shift anyway, help yourself."

I stood there feeling completely lost and discombobulated, struggling to wake up, consuming those donuts as if they were offered by none less than Mother Circe herself.

"Shit man, you smoke weed?" Jim asked.

"Not often, but that actually sounds pretty good right now," I replied. It wasn't me answering back; it was a downgraded response, as if a highly diminished note were accepted as normative.

The prior night had freaked me out; I couldn't shake it off. The sheer power and intensity of it—bringing a girl straight to my front door using only my psychic mind and intentions. That psychical refusal as well as regret throughout those halls in the depths of my mind—what was reality?

I recall now instantly something Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche wrote in Beyond Good and Evil; that famous aphorism number 68 where he says, and I quote: “I did that,” says my memory. “I cannot have done that,” says my pride, and remains inexorable. In the end — memory yields.

Those inner chambers of the mind become patterns other men and women complete, even if another faction of them tactically subverts you off our chosen tracks. All of this combined with other similar mind-to-external interfacing personal proofs had me weighed down and completely unnerved, to say the least.

Admittedly, I had dabbled initially just to discover what reality was hiding behind it all—maybe to find out conclusively what entities were lurking behind the veneer cast before us all. Something was always out of tempo, but did I have the personal agency to take it on myself?

Now I know for certain in all my ignorance I bit off far more than I could handle then, far more now than I wish to have ever known; the point of no return has been breached by a long shot.

But to live on the fringe of this matrix now, at 43 years and 5 months of age, is bizarre. It's my son's birthday today and I don't even really know where he's at, I kept thinking, not even buying him a present, wallowing in regret. The sadness crept in, amplified on that linoleum gas station floor.

As the hours passed, the atmosphere grew heavier. It felt as if an invisible force was tethering me there. Should I have simply walked away?

The fact is, I was exhausted in every way imaginable; my feet ached. I had been walking and meditating for weeks on end with fierce intensity and intention—trying to clean the world up. Sure, in my own estimations I felt pure, but could a man ever touch the heavens and not taint the sacred and divine?

And I often think of Icarus and the Imprisonment where Daedalus, a clever inventor, and his son Icarus were trapped on the island of Crete. Daedalus built wings out of bird feathers and beeswax to help them escape. I have always felt like I am Daedalus, trying to assist that boy that I love and cursing him with the taint of my very touch.

Yet Daedalus told his son to fly in the middle air. He warned him that flying too high would melt the wax, and flying too low would soak the feathers in sea spray, yet Icarus ignored the warning, flew too high toward the sun, melted his wax wings, and fell into the ocean. I am also Icarus, perhaps all sons truly are.

I was still operating in utter disbelief of these powers I had, but maybe something was always looming there watching me, pulling those strings from another dimension entirely, cursing me and both my sons around every damn turn?

And of this ever-looming, thin veil of illusion finally being pulled back. Like the skin of a sacrificed livestock animal, peeling it away revealed all the awfulness, blood, guts, and occulted grime beneath.

Was there ever any choice before me ever but to know, that true gnosis? In this way we have all been completely fated and set up.

"Look man," Jim yelled from the back room as he grabbed some supplies. "All the cars in the gas station are red. Weird, right?"

I immediately turned to witness this anomaly. "There are indeed six, seven... eight, nine cars in the gas station, all red!" I confirmed aloud. All were different years, models, and makes.

Upon further observation, I noticed Jim slowly returning to mind the register while simultaneously speaking to someone on the landline in the back.

He used so few words, but seemed to have conveyed an inside, patterned syllabus—with more than a hint at a matriculation toward a solemn blood oath covenant within a coterie's internal language, perhaps using some form of encrypted, dialectical code words—because of what that damn phone call seemed to conjure up from all the very liminal fringes and depths of hell, as demoniac Yokai seemed to manifest in human form almost immediately after.

Maybe those communications were far simpler; perhaps he pushed the digits on the phone in a highly organized display of some unholy Theban manifest of Morse code. I do not know how such arcane patrons and practitioners of pure evil operate, nor how they long ago went about establishing their own communications slightly outside the reach of the periphery of the gods, but I am beginning to think those gods must really hate us all and are from our view all quite evil.

Maybe that group Jim was connected with in this unholy allegiance had found a line directly to some form of Ymir, or perhaps the Gnostic demiurge had begun to show odd prominence. But the current suddenly shifted as soon as he hung that phone up, back into its port with a pronounced finality, which oddly carried through with my own coffin's thud.

I only made out, "Yeah, he's here." However, the chuckles that echoed from the back room and prior conversation were kept under the tonal octaves of my physical inner ear; the soul undoubtedly heard it all and tried to warn me to just get out! Flee!

He quickly covered it up with some mundane banter about dinner at a certain time and day. The call ended abruptly. “That was only my buddy, we are going out on my next day off,” he said nervously. Not so much like he was afraid of lying to me, but the fact that on some level he knew full well that in my raw, unfiltered state that I could see right through him, Jim.

He chuckled for some unknown reason, seemingly amused even though the receiver was already clearly hung up, then stepped forward to assist the next patron. His face shone red, as if another strike against him toward the unholy had forced him further from grace; his face appeared from the command of that register a greyish-green skin tone covered over by the guilt of red blush.

Then a dead, menacing calm hit—as if an invisible, spherical forcefield of light optics had been hanging over this entire patch of land all day.

No one else was inside the gas station at the time, but the cars outside were pulling up almost as if they were operating in unison.

"Look man, all green. All the cars are green now," Jim noted.

I turned to confirm, just as astonished as I had been observing the red cars earlier. "Are we in hell? Is this world actually hell?" I asked out loud.

"Yeah, funny you should mention that," Jim responded. "I've been thinking a lot about that lately. I have a story to tell you after work. If you stick around for another two hours, we can smoke a fat joint."

Feeling for some strange reason compelled to share my experiences with him—a guy I didn't even know in all sincerity—I can only compare it to a boxer in the ring, beaten and bloody in those final rounds, clinging to his opponent for dear life because he's the only other person standing there. This interaction had begun to take on that distinct tonality.

But here, there was an unseen attack. It could have been planned for days, weeks, or millennia. Maybe everybody, including my witchy mother Barbara, was in on it; I wouldn't be surprised in the least.

"Yeah, I can hang out till then," I said. "I can't believe this day went by so quickly!"

I was morbidly curious to see how it would all end. Would I be killed off, invited in, or were the terms of interaction entirely foreign to actual human behavior? Like a black widow consuming its mate when entirely finished, where did I fall in the order? A sort of psychic cannibalism. Was I now trapped in a small, confined space with an entity of pure energy, acting through these strange initiates as the willing armature of its will?

Suddenly, a group of people rushed in through the doors. Every single person who entered stared directly and ominously at me, physically turning their heads to lock eyes with me as they paced toward the register. Each seemed to lock into a specific posture—a cervical tilt of 26 to 33 degrees—like a military code signaling encrypted rank and file to one another. Some Michael Aquino sect at work; we weren't far from San Francisco, after all.

To express the oddity in further detail: if a goniometer were placed on the pivot axis of each of their necks, it would perfectly measure that well-rehearsed rank and file. It was an occulted body posture, acting as a silent language of communication that no one outside the cult would ever pick up on.

No normal, everyday person could walk straight forward with such deliberation, effortlessly avoiding shelves while maintaining that exact, rigidly held cervical angle. It wasn't human; it felt reptilian. None of them smiled. Upon entering the space, they immediately searched me out. Their eyes were entirely consumed by pitch-black, dilated pupils. My concern deepened into alarm.

Then another stagnant moment hit. Time began to speed by like a burning offering, dilating away into nothing.

Another rush came, this time composed entirely of white cars. By now, Jim and I were deeply engaged in discussing our intersecting interests: the occult, the subliminal, and molding raw reality into the esoteric.

"I brought a girl right to my door last night doing a sex ritual, I just thought I'd throw that out there," I told him. "I can see things in another realm. I see you, man, and you are like a reptile—green and dark. I couldn't see it before, until now. When I close my eyes and look into you with my third eye, I just see this odd, empty Saturn-like symbol, tilted and vacant." By that point, I wasn't surprised in the least.

I realized I should have led with that and saved myself several hours. I could have just walked out and looked for jobs back at the motel. But more likely, I would have just sat alone and written out the bizarre events of the prior night.

Suddenly, a new stream of people pushed through the glass-paneled door, causing the entry bell to ding—a sound I hadn't even noticed before. A man locked onto me with blazing, roaring eyes, as if a lion spirit were trapped inside him. He had massive, bushy eyebrows and long eyelashes framing huge blue eyes, and he stared at me as if I were an inductee, or food, or both.

Jim knew him well and introduced us, but for the life of me, I cannot recall his name now, even though I'm writing this only hours after the fact.

"He was a fighter—a damn good one, right?" Jim said.

The man didn't answer; he just stared back at me, as if witnessing something spiritually far greater within me.

"Who are you?" the man asked calmly. As he moved past the door, his energy carried a quiet letdown. I could nearly read his mind—he seemed disappointed that I was so utterly unaware of my own true power. The moment already felt like it belonged to another lifetime entirely, many years ago in another life altogether, yet it had truly only occurred a few hours ago in current temporal measure.

Do I even want to keep reading? Barry thought. His day had completely spun away from him, and somehow, outside his window, the sun had already set.

Reaching deep inside, he felt a raw, visceral pull—a desperate compulsion to read on. Besides, he owed Sam this much. He knew Sam had possessed the power to absorb his very soul force, but had consciously chosen never to do so. Sam's entire purpose had been about building up a soul, and this transcript was finally getting to the heart of what had truly happened back then to set today's events in motion.

Nearly two hours passed quickly, but those last twenty minutes of waiting seemed to drag on.

"Well man, you made it. That was a long stretch. Thanks for spending the day with me," Jim said. "Here comes Jendeh, she's my 5 p.m. relief. Listen, I need to tell her a few things and do some shift-closing tasks, then I'll meet you on the side of the building. We'll smoke." Jim held up his fist for a bump, and I ignorantly indulged him.

I stepped into the open air. It was nice to finally be outside. I felt like I should have been paid for my time, but by whom?

I was honestly contemplating just leaving, but something kept my feet glued to the concrete. I looked over at the ugly, dilapidated low-income apartments nearby, where the strange glow of near-evening, out-of-sync porch lights shone with that same menacing yellow hue.

Out came Jim, laughing as he approached me and zipping up his jacket. In his left hand, he was already gripping a very fat joint. "Check this shit out," he said, quickly smelling it as he handed it off, expecting me to do the same. "Yeah, I was waiting for this all day. Can't smoke before I work that register, though—not like some people can."

He shrugged, rifling for a lighter in his pocket. He acted like he couldn't find one, but it was an obvious false delay, ensuring I didn't present one first. "Oh, here it is," he said, pretending to pull a lighter from his pocket with a sloppy, unconvincing gesture, even though he had already been holding it concealed in his hand. He probably had free access to as many lighters as he wanted inside; why would he want to use mine?

He snagged the joint back from my hand after gesturing with a quick facial expression—eyebrows raised in a minor, nodding command. He smelled the joint again prior to lighting it. Taking his time with three long, deep, infectious hits, he held the smoke in before passing the large, well-rolled joint over to me.

"Hey, I have a question for you," he started. "I've been playing a game online with this girl for months now. We really hit it off. I knew she was young—too young—and she sent me pics. She said that she lives in Canada." Jim looked oddly into my soul, staring right behind my eyes to gauge my immediate, impulsive reaction.

Taking another long drag, he offered it back to me, but I refused. I was beginning to see a very dark, ominous side of Jim emerge in deeply unsettling ways. He was now smoking the joint liberally before extinguishing it to save the remainder for later, holding in the fumes just long enough to feel the full saturation of THC and cannabinoids. The shielding facade he had been spinning before him all day instantly transformed, then dropped away completely.

"So it turns out—and tell me what you think about this—it turns out that this isn't, in fact, a 15-year-old girl in Canada, but an 11-year-old boy who might live in the U.S., only posing as a girl after all this time. I mean, we talked about explicit sexual things. We had an actual online sexual relationship going. And here's the thing, Sam: it turns out he still wants to meet me, and he still wants to go back to how we were before. What do you think about that?"

Jim left it hanging out there, looking at me. What could I say? That it's wrong? That a 44-year-old man shouldn't have been online playing kids' games in the first place, socializing with children and probably scouting for exactly what he ended up with? Or maybe these platforms should give him a warning about online organizations putting massive time into sting operations? It was obviously a test of, "Well, are you right-hand path or left-hand path leaning?"—while I remain neither.

It was only recently I discovered that the Freemason Anchor Preston had not only been caught red-handed with his adoptive daughter, Natalia, but that the abuse was now occurring out in the open as a final indoctrination ritual. The judges and the community would do nothing; they would even actively assist in a cover-up, provided the perpetrator held enough status and social power. 

Then there was the final tick in the trauma-bonding physiology and its devastating impact on Natalia. She was groomed to be the agent operator—the star student and top equestrian rider—who was now retreating completely into a fractionated, silent mode, her overactive amygdala cybernetically conditioning her for life.

"Like I said, Jim, I think this could very well be hell," I told him.

Jim immediately replied, "Oh yeah, I was going to tell you, here's something else." As the sun finally dipped away and we stood bathed under the harsh building lights beside the gas station parking lot, he added, "Get this: my mother was told that if she gave birth to the son of Satan, she would be taken care of for life by a satanic cult."

"Well," I asked, "did she?"

Shrugging his shoulders and laughing it off, he replied, "She agreed."

He was obviously flesh and blood, but there was something palpably dark about him. The realization hit me: people can go about their day-to-day lives appearing perfectly normal, while inside, their personal constitution has been utterly annihilated. These aren't just human bodies; they are conduits and soul operatives, moving all around us every single day.

"I'm hungry and getting cold," I said.

Jim’s eyes flared with a strange, emblazoned green, looking upon me with a fixed, empty smile.

"I'm heading back to my motel room," I told him. Mistakenly, I offered for him to come along, and he quickly took me up on it. He had acted as if he were hungry too, but over the next hour, he wouldn't eat a thing. He just sat there, staring at me, smiling. I asked him what he was doing—what was he looking at? He only continued to stare and smile.

We walked back to the motel together. The car two doors down was still parked there, the room's curtains drawn tight, but now a light shone from the room immediately to the right of 112. It was room 114—I guess they skipped 113 for obvious reasons.

We entered my room. Jim took a seat and resumed staring at me. I assumed he was just tripping out on the heavy weed. Finally, he spoke: "Man, all I see is you spinning these orbs... orbs all around you. Light and different-colored orbs." He smiled, captivated, as if watching a beautiful cosmic event. It was as though a spectacular show was taking place, and the main act was me—but it was the version of me operating on the other side of this reality, the one I couldn't yet see.

Suddenly, Jim's face began to change under the room's artificial light. Geometrically, his features warped into the shape of a classical, archetypal Satan, bearing all the typical traits you could imagine: a pale, luminous outline tapering down into a pointed beard beneath massive, hollow eyes. It looked exactly like an inverted pentagram or a goat's head. The sharp, angular form of this false white light grew so pronounced that Jim himself completely vanished behind the glowing projection.

Acknowledging the profoundly bizarre nature of the moment, I stood up and went to the restroom. After taking a leak, I tossed a clean piece of toilet paper into the bowl. As it fell and hit the water, it perfectly unfolded into the geometric shape of a five-pointed star. What were the odds?

When I walked back out, Jim was sitting there laughing. It appeared he had spent the last hour having fantastic stories fed directly into his mind by some unseen entity—or, more accurately, receiving marching orders. I returned to my previous seat, but the room now felt suffocatingly dark. An immediate, visceral sensation overtook me: I felt as though I were shrinking, becoming entirely vacant and hollow. Something else had been conjured into that room—an alien presence radiating from another dimension, an unfathomably dark and malevolent space.

Suddenly, someone began banging aggressively on the door. It felt intentional—either an attempt to interrupt whatever ritual was taking place, or a calculated physical intrusion meant to anchor the sensory reality of the moment, heightening the psychological trauma. I opened the door to find a man in his mid-sixties with a white beard and a deeply worried expression. He turned and left on his own volition just as abruptly as he had knocked, but that look of intense concern remained burned into my memory.

"I feel like I am suddenly Jesus and you are Satan or Lucifer," I told Jim. "Like there is a literal spiritual battle taking place in here." I could feel myself growing weak and faint, my very soul being aggressively drawn out and drained from my body. I didn't know how to fight him. I hadn't studied the dark arts he was wielding.

Jim abruptly stood up. "I have to get going," he said, turning toward the door.

"What did you do to me? Wait!" I pleaded.

But he walked out, cold and callous, leaving me forever. It felt as though he had taken something vital with him out the door—my life, my soul force.

When that door shut with a hollow thud, total darkness consumed me. I felt myself shrinking into the corner, an empty, hollowed-out void. Desperate, I bolted upright and ran outside to search for him, but he was gone, having slipped away down some unseen back road.

Out on the street, cars screeched past as if the vehicles themselves were more alive than I was—as if this once-dead, mundane world now possessed more vitality than my own flesh. Everything moved at a blinding, light-speed blur. With every sluggish step, it felt as though my energy had been siphoned right down to the last drops of my soul's marrow. I was empty. Gone.

Drained and horrified, I returned to the motel merely to retrieve my belongings. On a whim, I knocked on the door of the neighboring room. A woman opened it, offering a puzzled look. But standing behind her, framed in the doorway of the rear bathroom, was the exact same white-bearded man who had pounded on my door at the precise moment Jim was executing his spellwork to leach my soul energy away. The old man kept the right side of his body hidden, revealing only the left side of his face. When I demanded to know why he had knocked on my door earlier, a mortified expression washed over him, and he frantically denied ever doing so. That couple was stationed in that room for a specific purpose, and I firmly believe that purpose was me.

Later that evening, my phone began to ring. It was my toxic ex-wife, my witch of a mother, and my evil sister. They all sensed that my "death" had occurred, as if they were inducted into the exact same dark caste—willing to trade my life force for something worldly and tangible. My sister even drove to the motel while I was out walking; she spoke to the man and his wife in the adjacent room, both of whom blatantly denied ever seeing me. Writing this, it feels like it happened in the distant past, yet all of this transpired only hours ago. I sit here now in this exact same room, preparing to pack my bags and leave.

During my dazed walk, I crossed paths with an elderly Black man. He possessed the only genuine light I could perceive in that entirely darkened world. Approaching him, I pleaded, "How do you have such light inside you?"

He didn't answer the question directly; he only told me that he had a room for me in a boarding house over on Ramona Street. I fell to my knees and genuflected right there on the sidewalk—not to the man himself, but to the divine light radiating from him, a light brighter than anything else left in my view. "Please, sir, bless me," I begged.

And he did. That simple blessing provided me with the meager drops of spiritual juice required to sit here and write this account. He simply reminded me of the room on Ramona Street, repeating his initial offer. I can't remember the exact address he gave me, but I will search for it on my walk tomorrow.

I lost my soul tonight. My vital force, my foundational energy—stolen. Yet, paradoxically, I have become purified and made whole simply through my sheer will to live. I have begun to draw raw spin energy back into my core, though the process was agonizingly difficult at first. I realized then that the very people secretly plotting against me—those desiring not only my soul stripped away, but my entire life and identity destroyed—were the ones who felt my death first. They felt me die, yet every single one of them is completely soulless. Are they the Moirai? The Fates themselves?

On the phone, they all sounded deeply disappointed, as if they had been anticipating and vying for this exact moment for a very long time. But within me, I now feel the pure presence of a new soul, a hard-fought restoration driving me toward total renewal—a divine frequency that they, along with this entire material world, can neither retain nor obtain. This world is a realm of profound darkness.

I have begun to broadcast meditations of purity across the globe through my mind, body, spirit, and soul. With every intentional meditation, I grow stronger than I was before. This physical world suddenly feels entirely foreign, yet here I remain, trapped within the same skin. I feel a burning need to amplify this pure energy and expand. Wherever the light decides to anchor itself, hope follows. Not everyone has the eyes to see or acknowledge it, and the path forward is exceedingly narrow now. I know this.

I will be writing more on this soon. A war has officially begun between the pure source channeling through me and the entities who attempted to hijack my soul force. Or perhaps this battle has been raging since the dawn of time; I truly cannot tell you.

Barry walked beside Sam, quietly absorbing the profound, heavy gravity of his companion's newfound soul.

"To exist as a singular, simple man—daring to strip away every systemic taboo and firewall just to be—might actually be an impossibility in this place, short of total transcendence," Barry mused aloud with grim conviction.

He leafed through the pages of dense, esoteric notes—intellectually rigorous documentation that Sam would later utilize to backward-engineer the mechanics of this anomalous, divine mystery. Barry's eyes locked onto the chronological progression extending past February 26th, 2013.

"Look here, a retrospective sequel," Barry muttered, scanning the timeline. "It appears Sam ceased journaling temporarily, requiring a period of psychological consolidation before these volatile events could fully crystallize on the page."

Sam Von Ralettes: In the Days that Followed the Event

Notes and journals added in retrospect, as the occurrences that followed felt more like a DMT nightmare—of which I partook in none, as I remained for a long while unadulterated and pure. It was a fresh beginning and a necessary reset to life, the world, and the way it all truly works behind the occulted veil:

In the days that followed, I blessed the multitude. I had possibly lost those fragments of my past self, but I forged a new way from the hidden hub of energy access points that everyone ultimately looks past. Most see themselves innocently as honeybees searching for nectar as they pursue craft in incendiary arguments, producing systematic, chosen chaos to get through a typical day. 

This world is the true world we live in here every day—a parasitic system that eventually worms the wood with enough holes that its fabric and density cause a total reconsolidation and systems collapse, as the distributional strings can no longer harmoniously provide any energy generation.

To get my fractured but now seasoned soul back to health, I cast away this false veil of personal illusion. I cried and walked near busy, miles-long traffic of cars, blessing them—doing the rarefied work of networking joy and peace that the masses neither saw nor felt. The weather responded to me, and people came forward to tell me randomly what they knew within, saying, "I know what you are doing, thank you!"—though it was quite rare in those days that I remained to walk completely pure. For three days I went with little sleep or rest, no food, and very little water, walking all through the day and looping back into the night.

I sat on a park bench looking up at the sky. I saw writing in varied languages; most of the words were Middle Eastern of some kind. A dove flew comfortably past my shoulder, feeling my peace and constant energy work as I did my best to use this purge of my soul to plant a new seed of purity everywhere. The dove began to build a nest behind me on a wall completely exposed to the entire park. I wondered if my presence gave that mother dove a false reassurance that the pure truth had not systemically been reestablished in this synthetic hologram of material stalemate, and that I walked alone. In the coming days, the nest was gone, and so were the eggs she laid.

I continued on and fasted, walking away from that hotel. I walked all day and all night like some war-torn refugee. I felt Jim attacking me further, as if he had set some spellbound tap remotely into me. But I battled with him and learned a great deal from it; all his dark, occulted secrets became mine. You see, I didn't find out how to work with this energy through books. I was what those in the highest rungs of these esoteric circles of practitioner magick refer to as "a natural," and I am. No methods like an energy-capitalizing pyramid currency tree of life, or an occulted corporate franchising, got me here to this place or gave me the knowledge; rather, I simply learned to close my eyes, look around the utter vastness of this universe, and see.

Tired and walking continuously through all the towns and uncomfortable pockets and zones we all just pass by without really witnessing, this truth of existence—bound in those subverted realms of energy and light—revealed itself. I closed my eyes to the world and opened my mind's eyes to every neuron, dendrite, axon terminus, receptor, synaptic cleft, microtubule, and photoreceptor within me, and I saw the world for what it is. 

The darkness, the symbols of age-old spellcasting, and sacrifices. I could see the secret operatives that planted the seeds of codified evil and their works as I passed restaurants, animal shelters, medical service providers, convenience stores, bus stops, and looping, dead-end streets. I saw it all in technicolor before me, and there was no holy Council to check in with, nor a God to report this phenomenon-to-noumenon inactive interface to. There was only ever me and my ultimate choice: to consume them all as useless eaters, to become food for them, or to become a willing, active terminus of sorts.

I chose to provide the great work with another rarified axis point, continuing to cut these networks and malicious works over the ages with my pure state of mind, then meditating and purifying the world through a mass distribution of cosmic microtubule networking, reestablishing fragments of broken strings and streams—but I was alone, and there was no one to answer the call on the other side.

As I attempted to reenter the mundane world by relying on soup kitchens and shelters, there was no celebration of my work. Instead, the feeble, base demons at society's lower rungs attacked me for no reason while I waited in lines or simply tried to sleep on those shelter cots. They randomly attacked me while observers only saw a tired, aging man—my outer shell being torn apart verbally by some low-level drug addict, sex worker, or child-molesting deviant. I saw their works; they felt my pure energy, and I was seen as a threat simply by existing. Their votes don't count in the end. Each of them is an unsupported, dead or dying algorithm with no principle flow-through. Those who join the fraternities—from the witchcraft covens to the Masonic halls, Christian temples, Kingdom Halls, Mormon churches, and satanic temples—are given a 12-step program, a 32-degree master key process, a Bible infused with ancient spell-work, and a way to view the world as an army of a demonic legion. Yet purity is entirely looked past, with only the way of processing those gradients away from it all ever shown as the final word. The conduits lead back to the accumulation of energy as power, an unrelenting, ever-boiling-over honeypot for an unseen God as host.

I think we are going to be gone soon. The only thing left of us will be packed within an infinitesimally tiny, trapped, micro-photonic light pixel. Like the early studies with moss acting as a meshwork of networking, who we are, our shape, and the pattern of who we ultimately become as a symbol—if that symbol acts as a distribution point with others—will be packed into that diamond. To the outside observer, it might look like cloudy, murky imperfections, leaving the biggest question remaining of its total aesthetic value:

How much luminosity does this multiplicity of a crisscrossing, twisted mass of interconnected microtubing give off? More so, when and where does it end? Does it all end with you, or me, or them over there?

Our level of cruelty and conceptual supremacy—that we should feel the full effects of our ephemerality and choose to harvest the small bit of energy from another trapped in that same maddening conundrum—that is the ultimate choice of free will. And throughout this massive distribution channel, what is the choice before us all? Do we take on that torch and fit ourselves in with others? Do we fight for the rights of children suffering at the hands of energy vampires? Do we make everyone into a king and queen of their own province? Maybe we always get lost and stopped up in the beginning, even though we have already been given the keys. Maybe those who interdimensionally roam behind those phantom walls and vapor streams are more let down than we seem to be. As these entities have offered this choice and their technology as a gamble on man, what will man do? How will man fight to retain man's final catharsis into an ultimate form? No, those who seem to conspire on that other side keep the operation going long after each of us ends the game prematurely—but it isn't a game, is it? It is the shared networking, the keys to heaven just handed to us, and we drive the entire operation off a remote, simulated cliff with precision.

Imagine how they feel, that we—these blank slates stuffed into the middle of everything that is—choose the most power-grabbing defiance in final self-immolation because no one listens to the voice of pure principles. No one simply sees what that standard marshmallow test provides in a divine way. What if the smallest modicum of patience and faith—just enough to wait an extra hour, or a full seven or eight—was enough to at least come to this state of ultimate truth? To believe in what is already within you as a base, default mapping of this entire cosmos, and connecting far beyond that.

No, they see the same outcome redundantly with near precision: the outcasts and anomalies that offer up their lives to see what they know to be true, not with human eyes, but with the intuitive, prescient, a priori gnosis required to transcend. Those are the few who are ultimately taken up, removed from this dark, looming diamond that should become an ever-consuming void, not a filter of inverted light like the warping promise of a black hole—ultimate doom and void.

Those entities aren't the demons; we are. They merely constructed a fence around us in order to see how it's made. A little of that condensed substance folds an entire world upon itself. It is the perpetual state of self-perceived supremacy, a lie carried over throughout generations.

After that event with Jim, I now close my eyes to see people for the form they truly are. Most can barely be seen in any spiritual sense. They walk around every day with a foulness of inner light, grabbing and siphoning off in minor, desperate attempts, as the power axis of symmetry itself immediately corrects the state of flow. This isn't higher principles governing and dictating this balance, but the indifference of thermodynamics. Most discover how this limited, capped, and finite information—as energy distribution locally—trickles off, either a little energy day-by-day from them or to them, and they choose the instant, immediate gratification every time.

Here, in this isolated but equally potent entry point to what most could only call hell, exogenous drugs are not required to be an addict. No, the real addiction comes from the internal, occulted, ever-debating state of vampirism: energy theft. This is done in a myriad of ways. From stealing away someone's joy with the intention to do so, you are seen by that eye, and it will ultimately show itself to you. The adept—those who consider themselves practitioners—rely on the simple stance of an argument: "It was all that was available. I either steal the light and soul from others or I allow myself to be their food. What would you choose?" Well, this is the constant state of man. As science in the coming years leaves this multilayered proof set before all people, a mighty war of energy weapons and meditations of energy cultivation will ensue—the war for tangible inner light that manifests into us all at some point in time.

Scientists use this intellectual niche similarly through academics: the search for that inner gold, that stream of information, language, and knowledge that only a few could know. Many consider this the God code. Then there are those who access these higher realms of energy without all the fancy fencing techniques and mental gymnastics, and they are connected to the ultimate truth through an initiate's inner light.

These factions go to war as coteries, covens, circles, fraternities, exclusive clubs, gatherings, and physical meeting places—forms and patterns of finite, shared unions where ultimately one Judas will intentionally and quite purposefully, as agreed upon by the mass of the group, set the power battle afoot. Well, imagine these clandestine meetings all taking place as one singular event. The singularity is on its way.

No one actually knows anything about anyone else, until you can see beyond the eyes of this world and all its limitations.

There was so much left in all these journals and countless notes. The information contained worked like an active loop, which no one would have time to fully absorb in a single lifetime. The material demanded a grasp of philosophy, philology, poetry, theology, computer science, Gnosticism, and mathematical systems theory within the mere mention of fractaled subsets. In other words, if one were to parse through all the material once, and then repeat the process using newfound methods of thematic subsets through epistemology, the entire loop would continue to energetically unlock vast areas of documentation and experiences previously looked past in haste. Not to mention the newfound, revolutionary scientific empirical data and substantiated inferences that Sam could not have proved beyond mere speculation at any given time—rather, the best way to describe it was that he was shown. By that eye atop the crest of that phantom pyramid.

Were these groups that work through what Sam mentions—Raytheon, BlackRock, JPL, Lockheed Martin, Boeing, Northrop Grumman, General Dynamics, The Vanguard Group, State Street Corporation, SpaceX, Rocket Lab—financing a call to a great cosmic entity? Was all this man's doing in a final search to disprove the obvious: that God either wrote us off for dead or never existed, and that our laws and universal tropes circulate back into us with increasing generational malice and toxicity? Were the bad guys stepping on the dead bones and backs of the horde, searching for a master of it all? How ironic that would be! Maybe that is what Sam meant when he wrote once, and vocally stated in repetition:

"Man is an ironically comedic bridge in his own undoing. The culprit behind every paranoid scapegoat is the irony of seeing his own face staring back at him."

Sam Von Ralettes: The Final Battle's Beginning

Barry thought to himself as he began to read on:

"Did the final battle already take place? Did Sam actually win? Was his transcendence disguised in the package of carnal death? A holographic, localized battle projected out into the cosmos? Every victory and setback rippled out into the stars, now echoing back on us all as a tidal wave that once only appeared as a crazy homeless man blessing strangers with smiles, and later only feeding off those who were in the process of feeding from him?"

As Barry read on:

"That second day and night I was met with pure evil as I reached that carriage house park, hearing only the trickling of that overflowing bucket into that wishing well. I ended up back there in that same place, exhausted after continuous days and nights of relentless battles with pure evil.

The phantoms attacked me, targeting my lower chakras and assaulting my nervous system, endocrine organs, brain, and spinal system, on through the multilayers of my psyche. I see that jade face—Jim's face—and now I know full well he is in his home right now, fully deploying black magic upon me. I see that principality-based electric devil, appearing like Ahriman and Mephistopheles, as he conjures his legions toward the pure 

light in me, looking to them all as no more than a massive pipe of fresh loosh—the attempting amassing soul seen as nothing more than food. I battle them all with this pure sword given to me in waking, altered states. I am far too tired to continue on, as the campaign never seems to cease. No angelic hosts came to my aid or rescue; I battled the entire cosmic field of dark matter energy on my own. I am alone, and I am plagued by the inconvenience of existing as a purely renewed soul. I could not sleep, and so step by step I tripped as I stumbled, but I did not fall.

Past the beaches on the old railroad tracks, in through the night, I looked down at that place called Devil's Slide and saw the spells that Clark from the Nectar and Bean cast upon me. I passed a massive, dying rat as I burned an item—a card of his—to close any earthly open portal that he used against me. I walked down the steep slopes of that Devil's Slide, seeing if it would throw out a massive wave and gobble me up into that sea of frenzied, liquid souls.

I walked over to an open nook where cars could pull in, driven by tourists living in the ignorance of that falsely cast sunlight, always nervously visiting other places. I saw Barbara in the spirit world, perhaps now in her sleep, hypnagogically speaking spells against me, along with her daughters—some chosen, and some born of her malignancy.

I felt the compulsion to bow down to the western full moon, as I saw the great serpent eating it up, as if it were mid-process in consuming a massive egg. A shooting star shot across the sky, streaking a long tail behind it at the exact moment I bowed. The West, the right-hand path—but it was just another self-justifying method of seeing one group as superior, exalted above the rest. I walked on.

The miles put me into a trance, and I felt the same unending walk of all those minds before me. We walked together as one body in time, trying to purify a shattered state. There was no rest for us, only the nubs left from the feet that could not serve the master's will if any could go on for the long.

I walked silently in the middle of the night into that third day, where I decided then and there—in the moonlit glow of the second night and the third day's early morning—that I would trace back and confront Jim and all his demonic agents of the left-hand path deception. Jim's face hung before me, and the principles were shown to me in all the brilliance of photons colliding in the shift, transitional light and color, as the shapes moved and contorted seamlessly around a nucleus of a pure center.

Jim's principalities of greed and self-promotion faded with his lower-ranking demon-god's power. No one really bothered to ever look and see through spiritual eyes and destroy these entities, and in their wake are countless numbers. But in the purity of light they collectively diminish as one.

Jim before his Baphomet Pentagram, as were they all, attacked me, and by now I could feel them all awaken in the dead of night, praying against me, chanting, and some in tongues.

In all their false piety, knowing that their religions—from Christianity to certain common sects of Buddhism, and on to outright satanic Set worship—were all knowingly and actively speaking the same spells against me.

I alone survived those attacks and grew to unequivocally, thoroughly immense spiritual proportions. I saw the world in its continued absence of truth.

They all wanted it to end, but they were each too alone, isolated, and limited in their thoughts like that fat, dying rat lying on the shores of that sandy beach under the moonlight—halfway between the latter stages of earthly death and that ever-looping rhetorical return back into being nearly that same rat again, yet with increasingly epigenetic default limitations fabricated into it, as the mundane limitations were further governed forth with increasing cyclical restrictions, in all its lack—ubiquitous assumption, forms cast into the banal.

Del Luna Beach.

I collapsed at the crest's edge of the Montgomery city line, before the coast is eaten up entirely by the ocean, sealing off the loop of energy in all its topographic motherboard switch-divisiveness.

I could see Jim's face and my own family members behind him in a circle coven. Each was probably kneeling in a circle in their unsuspecting bedrooms, as the paperboy's alarm wouldn't go off for another hour at least—soon tossing out those newspapers to homes that only in verisimilitude appeared as a cul-de-sac of the same basic makeup.

Little would the unsuspecting, banal mind ever venture to know the campaigns and secret orders silently calling out in total supplication, incantations, and spells. Taken from supply-chain books that they order by mail or purchase from the local occult bookstore, passed off as LARPers and nerds.

Little would the uninitiated suspect when biting that sacrificed meat, as they bit into a simple thing referred to as a fast-food hamburger, taken from the port-titled Hamburg steak. Or a so-called turkey sandwich titled from the Earl of Sandwich, that downplay of the hunt, the game, the consumption.

Yet no one says, "I require the meat from a mass sacrificed dead cow, and leave it bloody."

What are we really, that we so choose to not fully see? Assumed free choice is not free will.

I spun those spheres around me and over the Carmelite hill, many, many miles away off in the distance.

I kept focusing and burning those six spheres, continuously spinning them together as I was seated firmly within that Merkabah center, at the seat of cybernetic systemic control.

I beat Jim that night as the sun rose, as he—along with all his self-entitled initiates and adepts, but truly merely mediocre men and women—proved far too lazy and unpracticed to take the campaign against me all the way through.

The pain came later, as I would be attacked by the recruits and members of this tenebrous subset of lost, unprincipled derelicts, and finally by the world at large.

I reappropriated the six spheres, tearing them back out from that cryptic, opaque spiritual quantamancy in technologia.

With that limiter placed upon the Tree of Life, I pulled the Phi spheres away, sitting within the pure hub, no longer just a man.

I placed those spheres of master principle back where they always should have been—now spinning and dilating from el amanecer through those early, painful hours, the death hour of procession carried on my back through the dark shadow of madrugar.

Last night Purity won, and would go on remarkably and completely unnoticed.

A brighter day perhaps, one which the hordes and masses could take entirely for granted as a single warrior fights on in physical, perilous battles through the phantoms of night.

No one seems to care about the gripping reality of where the world sank into other cosmic, unseen realms.

The darkness is what they all fully deserved, I would soon learn.

Barry's Dream

Barry began to fall asleep; it was already the middle of the night. He drifted off into that same recurring dream that Sam had also mentioned in his massive texts: a dream where he was learning masterfully to fly, flap his massive wings, and run to take flight into the sky. The couch in his small home was far more comfortable than the brick and pavement of that carriage house park.

He slept over a specific notepad that was still backed and sealed with not three, but five rubber bands of a similar grey color as before. The five grey rubber bands remained taut around the cardboard back of the notepad, holding the remaining unread pages firmly in place beneath his resting arm. The house was completely still, save for the faint hum of a refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant, muted sound of traffic miles away from the city line. Barry occupied three spaces at once, absorbing the informational notes on the first several pages of the journal as he slept.

The heavy, rhythmic beating of his own massive wings filled the silence of the dreamscape, lifting him effortlessly away from the terrestrial weight of cities, cul-de-sacs, and forgotten parks. He hovered there in the dark, vacant night before a full moon, somewhere between his imagination and what he was now being downloaded into. Below him, the geography blurred into the cold, geometric lines of a massive motherboard shaped like a perfect inverted green pentagram, its circuits tracing paths across the earth until they vanished into the dark horizon. The earth below felt small and powerless. Higher he went, following the precise northern alignment toward the fixed point of the imperishable stars, the air thinning until it gave way to the pure, quiet vacuum of the stars in a grand synthesis of colors neither known nor seen here on earth. Yet down below, he could see and sense her beacon, now appearing to flicker between green and red.

As the deep hours of the night began to give way toward the first imperishable signs of the early morning glow, the dream shifted. The vast expanse of the sky narrowed down to the stark interior of an old municipal library or an abandoned research station, where tables were stacked high with decommissioned defense logs, aerospace schematics, and maps of northern flight paths marked with hand-drawn constellations. While massive downloads fed into him—in through his solar plexus, brain, and spine—a phantom light seemed to emanate from the next section of the sealed pages, whose seals were waiting to be broken. Then he woke up.

Peeling himself from the text below him, Barry began to sit up. He couldn't help but look down at the notepad infused behind the prior night's reading of Sam's victorious battle with Jim and his dark alliances. As he broke the five pentagonal-shaped, taut bands away with crisp, clean snaps, the fused notepad became unhinged; he peeled the pad back like skin from the meaty substance below it. This detachment revealed a red pentagram sigil drawn on the front, with a superimposed six-sphere multicolored symbol directly over it.

So he cracked open the pages crested beneath and began to read, his hair still disheveled. That hot shower and toilet called to him from down the hallway of his home, yet he was locked into the discovery of this occulted knowledge, as hidden layers of the truth quickly washed away the dusty ages and the grime of obnubilated cover-ups.

Sam Von Ralettes: Notes

2026 Last Few Untill Departure

Sam’s Final Dossier: The Esoteric Aerospace Architecture

I. The Dual-Track Framework

NASA and modern aerospace programs maintain an exoteric layer of standard engineering and public relations, masking an operational esoteric and ritualistic framework built on precise timing, symbolic patch geometry, and occult infrastructure.

* Aerospace Syncretism: Programs like Juno, Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo intentionally integrate ancient pagan mythologies to tap into raw patterns of light and rebirth.

* The Orion-Osiris Link: Apollo insignia overlaid the letter A onto Orion’s Belt (Mintaka, Alnilam, Alnitak), tying directly into Egyptian death-and-resurrection mythos. 

Landing Site selection was curated under Farooq El-Baz (nicknamed "The King"), whose father was a scholar of Egyptian hieroglyphs.

• NROL-16 Patch Anomalies: Features a pelican (linking to CIA scientist Ron Pandalfi’s Aviary network), five pentagrams, a stylized sun, palm trees, and Bigfoot. It launched on Walpurgisnacht (April 30 at 12:50 AM) using structural parallels to grimoire matrices.

II. Ritualistic Timing & Calendar Alignments

• October 31, 1936 (Samhain): Jack Parsons (JPL co-founder, Agape Lodge O.T.O.) executed the first successful liquid-fuel rocket test at Arroyo Seco between 2:49 AM and 3:00 AM.

• January 31, 1958 (Imbolc): Explorer 1 launched as a ritualistic rebirth counterweight to Parsons' Samhain test.

• December 21, 1968 (Winter Solstice): Apollo 8 launched, symbolizing the rebirth of Sol Invictus, punctuated by the public Genesis broadcast from lunar orbit.

• July 16, 1969 (Apollo 11): Launched on the exact 24th anniversary of the Trinity nuclear test under the sign of Aquarius.

• Lunar Communion: Buzz Aldrin consumed sacramental wine and bread inside the Eagle.

• Artifacts Left Behind: A gold olive branch, Apollo 1 patch (honoring Grissom, White, Chaffee), commemorative plaques, the Fallen Astronaut figurine, and David Scott’s lunar Bible.

III. Hidden Infrastructure & The "33" Signature

• The 33 Marker: White Sands Launchpad 33 was heavily used by Wernher von Braun for V-2 testing, and the Kennedy Space Center Space Shuttle Landing Facility is permanently designated as Runway 33 (aligned at 330 degrees).

• Titan 4 Asset Distribution: Decommissioned hardware was strategically routed to anomaly hubs, including Wright-Patterson Air Force Base and McMinnville, Oregon (site of the 1950 Trent UAP photo case).

IV. Non-Human Intelligence, Consciousness, and Received Science

• Inspiration as Reception: Scientific breakthroughs do not stem purely from materialist calculation, but via downloads and altered states (Bergson’s "mystical summons up the mechanical"—noted in Einstein, Dirac, Pauli, and Heisenberg).

• Timothy Taylor: NASA Mission Control asset claiming direct acquisition of operational blueprints from non-human intelligence (NHI), acting as part of an operational "Adjustment Team" tied to T. Townsend Brown’s electrogravitics.

• Skunk Works Insiders: Executives (James Ryder, Robert Weiss, Steve Justice, Charles Chase) actively research ritual, altered states, and consciousness-driven craft navigation, even briefing religious studies scholar Dr. Jeffrey Kripal.

* Dr. James Latsky: Confirmed deep-tier government possession of intact non-human craft interiors.

* Neil Armstrong: Systematically conducted off-the-record investigations into historical UAP encounters with top-tier astronomers to bypass agency stigma.

V. Stellar Anchors & Space Force

* Circumpolar Gateways: The Thule Society and high-degree Freemasonry anchor their logic on the northern circumpolar stars and the Big Dipper (Ursa Major) as cosmic portals for transitioning souls or incoming NHI entities.

* The Ascension Motif: Ursa Major links ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts and Daoist alchemy to modern contact scenarios.

* Space Delta 7 Patch: Features a stylized black bear holding a key directly superimposed over the Big Dipper.

* The "Guardians" Nomenclature: US Space Force personnel utilize the exact term reported by modern contact experiencers (e.g., the Chris Bledsoe case).

VI. Deep Space Surveying (The Roman Telescope)

Operating synergistically with the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST), the Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope serves as a wide-angle surveyor to map cosmic expansion:

* Mandates: Maps the structural evolution of 1 billion galaxies to constrain dark energy and tracks tens of thousands of Type Ia supernovae.

* Microlensing: Observes 200 million stars in the galactic bulge every twelve minutes to detect rogue and distant exoplanets.

* Coronagraph Technology: Features active starlight suppression to pave the way for direct imaging of potentially habitable exoplanets.

This type of information was enough to cause Barry's mind to warp and buckle under the massive pressure and density of this lofty dataset. He had seen it all before—most of it, at least—but never under this direct context.

As he stripped his boxers and shorts away, tossing them to the ground below, he had already decided he'd wear the still semi-fresh outfit another day. He just needed badly to stand directly below that hot, steaming shower head. He pulled off his shirt and kicked away his socks, now standing naked under the shower and naked under the cosmos and God—whoever that might be.

He had already begun to catch his looping program of micro-thoughts: "Always a bigger bully, always a bigger God limited by our own perception—these days I feel like whatever it is, it's now staring back at me."

Now repeating the routine like Groundhog Day, he pulled on the same clothes as yesterday. Rather than the typical protein powder with honey-oat crunchy cereal, he opted for an energy drink tucked in the rear of his fridge—which he always kept ice-cold—and a prepackaged brown sugar cinnamon toaster pastry.

Barry needed to get back to those notes of Sam's, but he preferred to choose the gold stash of them randomly and out of sync. Here is one taken from the same general layer of notepads, only this one was much smaller, something one could nearly stuff into a large pocket marked 'Night after the event'.

February 27th, 2013

I was walking through the streets. The streets were glowing with a hot, neon-white light, showing the path to the late-night diner before me. A woman, laughing and talking to herself, wore a top hat with a seven of hearts tucked into the banded base. She streamed at least a twenty-three-foot length of Mardi Gras-inspired ribbon behind her.

Approaching now and moving past, she seemed to view me while closing her eyes, smiling, and then turning away in the unity of her own playful outward gesture, even raising her hands as she twirled. She wore a black gentleman's formal suit; however, it appeared to be becoming tattered at the edges, accumulating dust as she walked with a shoe on her right foot and bare skin on her left. I was half-inclined to hear whatever lies she spoke, or to wait for a quick tarot reading or a prescient, conjured monologue. A protected agent of some cybernetic disincarnate or alien host—a front-row box seat to watch how the other side can completely take over all executive functions of a walking, breathing human avatar.

I had just passed another woman miles before, on the border of Ravens Grove and New Montgomery. Almost Celtic-looking in appearance, she was tall and attractive, yet seemed to be acting oddly possessed. She walked as if her head were newly attached to her neck and spine, shimmying along as her spine rolled like an upright-walking serpent. She made no concealment of her many dark, occult-themed tattoos.

However, the ink appeared far too old to have been done on the body of such a young woman, perhaps in her early thirties. There was no life in her; she seemed to scour the land, searching for a partner to draw sexual energy from. Scantily dressed, she appeared like a walking corpse with zombie-like eyes, psionically driven by the existential. Microchip-looking, grid-like India ink was traced over the older tattoos across her chest, shoulders, bare thighs, and by all accounts down her entire spine. The circuitry seemed to act as a motion-driving antenna of sorts.

Much earlier in the day, I went into the library at Ravens Grove to drink from the ice-cold drinking fountain and use the restroom. The miles got easier then, without the need for food to bog me down.

As I walked in through the dual automatic doors, a miniature-sized woman stared intently back at me with a menacing smile—it felt as if she knew me. It was as if to hail some dark version of me from another realm where she had nearly worshipped my being. A strong Luciferian ringing set in, instantly reminding me of that hotel room and the experience I had with Jim only hours prior, which now seemed like a distant distraction.

That Phoney Squad agent was waiting in the parking lot as I left early with my chocolate protein powder in tow. I had claimed a victory, and the layer of people we pass off as possessed, cursed, or even disabled took clear notice of me. A clear shift in the axis of spiritual power was sweeping around the world, at least here in Ravens Grove.

Then and there, I began to develop a blog that would reach out internationally to share the truth of pure principles with everyone. The old guard had lost; this was something new and unexpected. The strange-looking girl had noticed me even before I stepped into that public environment, despite my firm effort to avoid contact of any kind.

This occurred right after I left the park, where I had witnessed writing in the sky—legible, yet not discernibly readable to me. It appeared as fast as it disappeared, only to be replaced by an obvious symbol: circular, with angular and sweeping shapes inside. The symbols seemed to transition from the same general area, shifting almost imperceptibly from one to the next.

That dove acknowledging me and building her nest so near to me, trusting me—that is not something I will soon forget.

You are capturing some very vivid and intense atmosphere in this story—the interplay between the physical exertion of long miles, the sudden perceptual shifts, and the quiet grounding of the dove in the park.

Barry's phone began to vibrate loudly through the serenity of his house, instantly breaking his days-long, obsessed union, pulling him back into the real world of bills, deadlines, and people. It was his aunt calling to check up on him.

"Hi Tia, what's up, lady?"

"I was just calling to check up on you, see how everything is going," Tia said from the other end of the line. "Haven't heard from you in a while?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything is going great, no complaints," Barry shot back.

"Yeah, so I was just talking with a friend and they said they saw you walking around with some homeless guy getting food at a food pantry. What's that all about? Do you need a loan or some paid hours? It's just that our quarterly taxes aren't due and everything is running boring and smoothly using tax apps, so not even the CPA has too much to do, at least for another month or so. Are you going to be alright till then, Barry?"

"Yes, Tia, absolutely," Barry assured her. "I was just doing some research for that book I have been writing—the one with Sam, you remember, 'the weird guy' as you called him. Well, I found some more notes and decided to follow up on them. Maybe even finally publish this esoteric, dark noir, cosmic horror type book in the process. Everything is going remarkably well. How are you?"

"Like I was saying before, boring, but working hard every day like I always do. Things are smooth," she replied. "Yeah, I told Paloma—kind of a nosy Catholic lady that comes into the restaurant, super cheap too, always arguing about her bill—I told her you are doing really good and not to worry, that you are probably out there doing exactly what you said, doing research for a book. It's just that she said you were doing drugs or something, and that's when I said, 'Oh never, he would never do such a thing, I think you are mistaken...' You weren't, right? You weren't doing drugs, right, Barry?"

"No, Tia, absolutely not," Barry said firmly. "I was just being stupid and bummed a cigarette off a homeless guy I was talking to, trying to feel the grit of the streets, sort of gonzo style—Nels Strauss or Hunter S. Thompson style stuff, you know?"

Satisfied, Tia moved to set her mind at ease and end the conversation so she could get back to her day. "Okay, well, I love you. I am praying for you, and like I said, next month..."

It's gonna be super busy and we will need help with payroll, bonuses, and tax prep... oh, and a few employees, I was telling them about you and they want to have their taxes done by you too, so we'll send you lots of business. So I hope you can get a lot of your book done or whatever this month, cause next month the shit hits the fan, Lil Bro. Okay, gotta go, kisses!"

With that, Barry felt a claustrophobic noose around his spiritual neck. "This world is so goddamned small with ugly, nosy people!"

He knew exactly who that woman was, and she was probably driving aimlessly around judging people and magnetically searching for this type of gossip. "She gets off on it, as it gives her a strange sense of self-appointed divine power," Barry sardonically quipped aloud, as if projecting his thoughts directly right to her pernicious face.

There are always factions and sides. Now that I know I have an entire month, I am rocking this book out and finishing a draft for it. I owe it to Sam, Rat, Bob, and all those weird characters that were circulating about the same general area as me, though in another lifetime over a decade ago, Barry thought, whispering to himself as he pulled out a rarified, ice-cold Anchor Steam single beer from the side of the refrigerator door, twisting the top and taking a big, generous, carbonated, sizzling gulp.

"Well, now that that's taken care of, let's dig back into those archives! I want to read that physical confrontation between Sam and Jim!" Barry stated with semi-satisfied indulgence.

Sam and Dean

"I was always depressed around Barbara, Dean."

"Fact is, I always felt this repressive evil in her presence, and before I acknowledged my spiritual eyes to see her... oh, sorry, I know you hate it when I talk about such subjects. Sorry, man."

They sat together, father and son, with all the universes of tension between them. They were sitting in Dean's SUV near where Sam had done that ritual—kneeling down near that very spot, in fact. But now it was daylight, a couple of years later.

"You see that cloud up there?" Sam looked up as Dean stared straight forward ignoring him, pointing out that exact spot where the shooting star had shot beside the moon the moment Sam had gotten on one knee, his right leg forward while his left leg was left lagging behind him as he bowed down in an instant. "That looks like a little cloud or a contrail, but do you see how it sweeps upward like a shoe logo? That cloud has been up there for the entire time we have been sitting here. It looks like the tip of a massive saucer, where they leave a portion unocculted so that their people and their tech can see that it's there. Otherwise, it is completely stealth."

"I don't believe that," said Dean, shifting the subject abruptly. "So how are you? You doing okay? Hanging in there?"

Sam just sat there for a moment, realizing no one else he knew was aware of it all—not the way he saw it. "Yeah, I'm doing alright. I can't really talk with you about anything because everything I do would be considered nonsense through your eyes, so I guess I'll just let you think I'm weird. But small talk? I just don't have it in me, Dean."

Barry and Rat

Barry got choked up reading some notes from 2015. He had primarily passed through all this stuff years ago when trying to find specific writing based around paranormal, mystical, typical creepypasta-style noir, that was before he had matured. Sam's work was semi-believable back then, but boring to Barry at the time. Barry had still been in college going for his CPA credentials—which he would never receive—but now he was seriously contemplating leaving it all behind: his house, his job, and the headache that came with it all in the coming weeks. Sure, Tia acted like she needed him, but Barry was essentially just freeloading, and he knew it.

"I just don't want to be a burden to anyone else ever," he said to himself in that quiet room.

Shit, I better eat some lunch then get back to it, he thought, now saying out loud, "Finish my beer, maybe grab more?"

He soon dismissed the idea because he wanted to remain clear. That's when his phone buzzed again from his pocket—a local, unfamiliar number.

Shit, should I?

Three more successive vibrating ring alerts came through as he downed another quick gulp of beer. Shit, why not!

Barry quickly pressed the green illuminated accept button on his phone screen.

"Barry?" the voice on the other end said in a generalized, questioning tone.

"Yeah, this is him."

"Hey man, this is Rat. What's up, man?"

"Hey Rat, how's it going, bro? I don't remember giving you my number, man?"

"Yeah, I got it from your Aunt Tia just now."

"Shit, I don't recall telling you who my aunt even was, Rat?"

"Yeah man, some lady—really rude, I think Paloma was her name—came up to me in the food line the other day at St. Angelica’s Church. She asked me if I knew you, and I just told her I just met you. Well, she started asking me if you were writing a book, and I told her you are writing a book about a friend—a really good book—and you were getting firsthand experiences and knowledge drops from me about our homie."

"Okay, is that all you said to her?" said Barry.

Rat went on, "She started asking me about drugs and if I ever go to a restaurant called Poppers Family Restaurant—your aunt's—or do I work there as a dishwasher or something? I told her you don't do drugs and no, I don't work there. Then she said that she saw you doing them, and that's when I told her that you just bummed a cigarette off me. Anyways, then I called over to Poppers and asked for you, then the guy put your Aunt Tia on and, well, I got your digits. Sorry if I'm bothering you, man."

"No, you aren't bothering me at all, Rat," Barry answered. "In fact, where are you now, man? I live in Montgomery."

"I'm in Montgomery too, man. I was just driving over to the DMV to take care of some shit with my RV, man."

"Shit, you got an RV, man?" responded Barry.

"Yeah, I just got it from a homie. Making payments: $800 total. I gave him $200 and a pound of skank weed, and I still owe him like two payments of $150 bucks. So where are you at anyways, man?"

"Is your RV big? Is it like a big RV?"

"No man, it's like one of those smaller Toyota 4-cylinders, man."

"Oh shit, so you can park anywhere on the street?"

"Pretty much. I got some DUIs, so I'm trying to not park it just anywhere, and the reg tags are like 10 years expired. Any alleyways near you?"

"Yes, in fact, at the back of the house there is an alley right there," Barry finished while Rat listened. "I'm at 210 Apricot Lane. You know where that is? Little white house, blue trim."

"Alright man, I'll see you in a few. Better go, I think I see a cop—better put down my phone." With that, Rat hung up quickly.

About 15 minutes later, Barry heard a knock on his door, but it was a pizza delivery driver.

"Nick or Betsy here?" The address was smudged off and only "Apricot Lane" showed through.

"No, no one here by that name."

The delivery driver responded, "Yeah, I'm brand new and the regular guy is off today. I also have crappy phone service, so the GPS is out, too."

"Well, I'll buy it off you. What flavor is it anyways? Like, toppings?" Barry replied while holding the door.

"Looks like it's an extra-large Hawaiian. It's $55, cash only, man," said the delivery driver.

"Okay, okay. Here, keep $60, and here's another $5 for ya. Cool, man?"

The delivery guy counted the money, stuffing it into his front jean pocket. "Yeah, perfect. Here you go, man."

Just then, as the delivery driver was leaving, Rat came walking up. "Oh damn, Orbit Pizza! My fucking favorite of all time, brother!" throwing a fist pump, then an awkward handshake Barry's way with taking up Barry's only free hand.

"Come in, man, come on in. I have some questions for you, bro. Did you find parking okay?" Barry stated in an inviting tone.

"Yeah man, no problem there. There is an entire area near the wall in the back of your place. I pulled in super close to the big cement wall and got out through my cabin door on the side—pretty much just disappeared there. Backed in to cover up my license plate so as not to set off any red flags to neighbors and what not," Rat added.

"Cool, cool, sounds good, man," as Barry allowed Rat in while closing the door, holding the massive pizza with his right arm. "You want some pizza?"

"Hell yeah, I'll have a slice, bro," said Rat.

Barry set the large pizza box down on the glass living room table, seeing that parmesan, hot pepper flakes, plates, and napkins were also provided on top. The room was now filling with the scent of ham, pineapple, and marinara sauce. Both of them grabbed a New York-sized slice, pulling the massive portions away from the main body of the pie and elevating the steaming pieces as thick, cheesy mozzarella drippings still melted off in hot escape, supported by a perfectly baked crust with just a little flop.

"Nice, man. Good quality stuff here. So what's all this here? Are all these Sam's notes and shit?" Rat asked Barry.

"Yeah man, it's a trip. It's taken over my life. I have a whole month to write this book... and how is it out there on the streets, man? Is it doable? I'm thinking about giving up my place and just throwing caution to the wind and letting my aunt rent this place out and make some money back on it, you know?" said Barry.

Rat responded, "It's a super nice place. I'd talk you out of it, but Sam taught me a lot about letting go of material shit, you know? Living off-grid, just living day-to-day, putting the real spiritual shit first, you know? Besides, I never really had a solid family. My adoptive mother fucked me all up to high hell—fucking psychologists!"

"Yeah man," said Barry. "Sorry I just dropped off the radar. I have just been reading random journals of Sam's here, notes piecing Sam's life together, and I've been thinking about you too, man. I feel like we have a lot to talk about."

"What are you researching right now? Is that open notebook where you're at now?" replied Rat.

"It is, but I just don't want to drag you into anything too mind-blowing. Like, Sam here is talking about battling someone named Jim Cartright and beating him in a sort of spiritual battle of the minds. In that journal dated late February 2013 - I am finally reading it after all these years of having it—Sam's confrontation with Jim."

"Yeah, I know Jim a little, but I know his brother Tom Cartright. He works at Shelly’s gas station in Ravens Grove. I guess he really looks up to his brother from what he always says about him. I don't know the guy super well, but this shit sounds hella trippy. And I have seen some seriously ominous shit with Sam. This guy Clive with his wolf pack and his graveyard necromancy shit... that is a whole 'nother level, man. A whole other level."

Rat finished his pizza slice, then grabbed another, then another, while Barry slowly sipped his beer and started in on his second piece as the day drew on. Rat pulled out a vape pen and offered some to Barry, and Barry partook.

"That's got serious CBDs, man. Lower THC, body high stuff. Good for thinking and working—no cloudy, heavy drag-down, know what I mean?" Rat stated.

Barry, not familiar with vape pens, drew in too much of the cloudy vape smoke. After holding it in, then exhaling for a good 25 seconds, he was still seeing the escape of vape smoke from his breath.

"Man, that does feel good. Perfect for this stuff—cuts the monotony!"

Barry stood up to get some water from the kitchen as Rat began going through several journals and notes on his own.

"You know, it's a trip, this fucking jail-hacked God Helmet in these notes here. That's how the man went up in smoke," Rat said as he liberally sucked in a massive hit from his vape pen pipe, smoke now pouring out into the room. "I could bring it up, you know. I have it in my RV. The suit too, and that big box of quartz crystals as well. All of it, man. Sam passed these down to me—these items, his son Dean and the other, Quin, either wouldn't want it or wouldn't know what to do with it he said when he was still alive."

"You have it? The actual helmet? This is a complete trip, dude. Really, I'm tripping out right now. Okay, bring it up, bring it up. You got it, really? Does it still work?" said Barry.

"Yeah man, I'll go get it right now. Come down with me and grab the box of quartz crystals, it's really heavy your fit. I guess Sam was very specific about using our own quartz crystals, which is why he had so many of them. So we need to keep them all separate—maybe mine, yours, and Sam's all in separate boxes or something," said Rat.

"I do wonder though, if these crystals house memories, or parts of us, what if I did try and talk to Sam, trip to think about," Rat added in.

Barry replied, "Yeah, I have some small tubs with hefty locking plastic lids and some fat multicolored Sharpies. We can definitely figure that out first. I'm not really familiar with the whole process, so I couldn't say for sure either way man—as far as what crystals we should or shouldn't use?"

Barry stood up, then Rat stood up as well. Barry grabbed his keys and phone off the living room glass table, now stuffing them into his front short pockets. They walked out the front door, firmly closing it behind them as they walked, circling around to the back alleyway. A major curiosity—or master key—was about to be unleashed.

The day worked itself into mid-afternoon, and the crisp Bay Area salty air gave them both an instant, smelling-salt-like sting that traveled deep into their nostrils. They both cleared their throats, letting the fresh air pour in through their sinuses, down into their bronchials, and into their lungs.

A renewed perspective. The street looked completely clear as Barry panned his gaze, turning sharply while following a comfortable distance behind Rat. Each direction up and down Apricot Lane appeared clear of oncoming cars as they curiously marched around the rear of Sam's home toward Rat's very well-tucked-in mini-RV. "This is nice. For 800 bucks man, shit, a little traveling home!" Barry said approvingly as Rat opened the already unlocked carriage door.

The interior revealed an inner dwelling where the small bathroom door swung open to reveal an empty hole where the compact toilet once sat, perhaps long ago. "Toyota Chinook, 18-footer, 1978," Rat said, semi-disappointed but with a sense of pride.

"Shit, man," Barry said, glancing around. He wanted to leave immediately but concealed his immediate impulse of revulsion as best he could from Rat. Barry saw how the roof had collapsed in on itself; the thing must have been sitting somewhere awaiting demolition. However, someone had built a series of 2x4 frames to hold the symmetry into some formalized, chaotic order.

"Well, it's a home, right man?" Barry said matter-of-factly as he looked down at the addition of the wood framing efforts, seeing that the pressure of attempted order had broken the seal of the soft layers of plastic and insulation sunken into the floor panels—now hanging there by breaking L-brackets, buckling and pulling away from the inadequate screws with nowhere left to anchor into.

The bike helmet could be seen looking out from atop a relatively large cardboard box, tucked inside a thin, dilapidated closet. Barry sat down on the creaking table bench, feeling the sharp bow of the uneven floor beneath him and wondering if the bench's wall attachments were about to give way without warning.

Noticing Barry’s glance toward the closet, Rat stepped dangerously down the short hallway and began dragging the heavy box into the main space. The resurrected domicile shell of the Chinook heaved and groaned with his every move.

"This thing is probably eighty to a hundred pounds!" Rat said, catching his breath. "I'll let you carry that, Barry."

The weight of the damp, floppy, mini-fridge-sized box warped in a waving flux, completely at odds with the asymmetrical pattern of the ancient, peeling yellow linoleum. Atop the heap, beside the helmet, lay a bunched-up set of off-color, thin long underwear—a piece of redneck tech bedazzled with crystals that had been glued, hand-sewn, and bound with duct tape. Inside the helmet itself, seven hand-carved grooves held matching quartz chunks tightly against the protective foam insulation.

Rat lifted the helmet and suit clear of the box, making the gear look deceptively light and insignificant. The movement revealed a Mickey Mouse wiring job underneath in all its blazing glory: exposed hair-dryer cords taped together with fusion caps placed at bizarre, dangerous intervals leading to a wall plug.

"Michael Persinger would roll over in his grave," Barry quipped. He squatted low, grabbing the box near its base as the water-logged cardboard threatened to tear free in his hands.

Rat grabbed the helmet, wires, and suit, falling into line behind Barry. The heavy box scraped along the floor, the quartz crystals grinding together in high-friction protest with every step as Barry hauled it out. The tiny, hyperbolic haunted house of a Chinook seemed relieved to finally be unburdened of the hazard. Inside the box, the quartz was neatly cataloged in plastic bags marked with dates and references that appeared to correspond with a journal back in the house.

"What is this, like 65 pounds? That's a lot of quartz!" Barry strained. The plastic shopping bags rustled and shifted as he lugged the grinding collection back around the corner, hauling it up the steps for relief and onto the blue-painted cement front porch. "Can you get that door?"

Rat was at least twenty feet behind, frozen on the path, staring up at an ominous moon cresting over the tree line.

"Rat!" Barry barked. "Get the door, man!"

"Oh shit—on my way!" Rat snapped back to reality. He took off at an awkward trot, clutching the helmet, wires, and suit in one arm while pulling up his sagging pants with the other.

A neighbor walked past on the sidewalk, eyeing the duo with deep suspicion while his massive Rottweiler yanked hard on the leash—as if the dog were telling him in its own language: “Stop bothering the neighbors and look straight ahead, why don't you?!”

Barry grabbed the box with perfect timing just as its soft, duct-taped bottom gave out, nearly spilling the entire contents onto the carpet. He had just made it past the notebooks, journals, and handwritten entries sprawled across the living room floor.

The smell of pizza drew them in as Rat set the redneck-tech suit and helmet once again atop that now well-expired cardboard structure.

"I guess that box has seen better days," Barry joked, opening the massive, sharp-hinged cardboard pizza box before it could get damp and discarded.

"Let's try some crushed red pepper and a packet of parmesan," Barry said, grabbing a doubled-up fresh paper plate and handing Rat an identical setup.

Night had finally taken hold of Montgomery. Rat accepted the plate with quiet gratitude.

Out in the distance, a group of friends could be seen walking together, all wearing their hoods up against the chill.

"Must be nice," Barry muttered, taking a massive bite of pizza.

"Yeah? What's that?" replied Rat, mirroring Barry's indulgent bite. Both men talked with full mouths, their eyes roaming the kitchen counter in search of something liquid to wash down the dough.

"Friends walking together. Probably young and totally clueless about the world that exists right under the floorboards of their reality."

"True dat, true dat," Rat replied in comfortable slang, following Barry toward the sink.

"Here, man," Barry said, handing Rat a glass of filtered tap water. "You can crash on the couch tonight. That RV looks like it's parked in a dark, shady spot anyway. Besides, I don't want you freaking out the neighbor if you have to take a leak in the middle of the night or just need to step outside for air. This way you've got some options, some headspace."

Outside, the Chinook sat idly at the rear of the property, resting as if begging for its labors to finally be over.

Inside, having eaten their fill and drank enough water to give their brains a second wind, the two set to work. Rat held the suit in his hands, twisting exposed wires together to bring the dangerous-looking hardware back to some marginal level of safety. Barry held the helmet, carefully pulling out the marked plastic bags, each referencing a coordinate or entry that surely corresponded to the journals on the floor.

"I found him, you know," Rat said quietly, looking over at Barry while his fingers worked the wiring. "I found Sam. He told me what he was doing. It took a good five days of being hooked up to this thing—meditating, not sleeping or eating, letting himself dry out into a piece of human beef jerky. He told me to come back, pull the helmet off him, and then call in the discovery of his body. He was staying with his kid Dean, but Dean and his brother were traveling a lot, so they'd never have to see him like that. I called from a payphone—never left my info. Just said I was delivering a package to Dean Von Ralette's place and saw a body leaning against the wall, gave the address, and hung up."

Rat paused, securing a loose lead with black tape.

"Truth is, Barry, I know more about this helmet and suit setup than I’ve let on. This thing is legit. I've used it many times, right along with Sam. That man had serious willpower, you know? He could have taken the thing off or walked away at any moment. It wasn't like he was being electrocuted by exposed wires or anything. It looks sloppy, but the geometry of this whole setup is accurate. The glue gun and duct tape are just there because the crystals have to be shifted to precise points for each individual user."

Rat looked up, his eyes holding a strange, distant intensity.

"We both used this suit a lot. I was wearing it when that big 7.2 earthquake hit last week—the one right when that particle collider lab, Brahmin-West, blew up. That was the last time I used it, Barry. Ever since then, I've just been going along with the flow... seeing what this fucked-up universe has in store for us next, you know?"

"Well, who's going to go first?" Barry laughed. Rat took a long, heavy rip from his mostly full vape pipe and handed it over.

Barry matched him, pulling the vapor deep into his lungs.

"I got some indica head-change stuff I only smoke at night or when I'm really stressed," Rat said, pulling a second, dormant pen from his pocket. "The stress of all this... it gets better, man. There are ways out of this place, you know?"

"Other realms, right?" Barry replied.

"Oh, for sure, other realms," Rat said, launching into a winding, intense monologue. "I think we should really sit down and be totally ready here. The information these crystals store can be accessed. Like everyday stuff—if you're studying for a test or something, it's pretty useful. But man, this is different. It’s all pulled from a parallel universe. You see through the eyes of your fucking doppelgänger, bro. It's serious mind-altering shit."

Rat took another hefty hit from the indica pen. The digital display on the side read 38% THC, and the liquid chamber glowed an eerie neon green.

"Hmm? Hmm?"

Rat held the thick, dank vapor in his lungs for a long moment before offering the pen back to Barry. Barry hesitated, then took it. "I think I’m going to take this rip, then go read the final journal entries between Sam and Jim to see how it all ended."

"You don't need the journals to do that, man," Rat cut in, aggressively shuffling through bags of sorted quartz. "You can use these. If we put this specific crystal combination in this bag on that rig—they're all marked clearly—we can adjust the suit with the glue gun. You got any more tape or fabric adhesive around here?"

"What are you saying, Rat?" Barry asked, his head starting to swim from the weed. "Are you saying that with this low-tech piece of shit, using Sam's crystals, I can actually jump back into his memories? Like I'm standing right there? Is that what you're telling me?!"

Without waiting for an answer, Barry took a massive, reckless drag.

Rat grabbed the vape back, matching him with a furious, deep inhale that sent the green liquid level plunging in the tiny window.

They exhaled together in a massive cloud, coughing as the cool night air rushed into their lungs.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm telling you," Rat choked out. "We make the adjustments in fifteen minutes, plug the thing in, and you're looking directly through Sam's eyes. You'll be staring right into Jim's crazy green eyes. I've been there, Barry. I know. The other side has nearly the exact same version of him—it’s a multiverse. Sam was charting it all until he found a timeline where he and his two sons actually got along. Everything was perfect there, but lately, that universe has begun to fracture. Sam knew the final cutoff date was in 2034, so he decided to just bail. He went over permanently to fuse with his alternate self. See, this isn't the 'good' world Sam told me about, but there’s a freakier backside to it. There's a limbo space between the two halves where a secret council can pause, stop, reroute, and switch reality over to a finalized state."

A choice has to be made as to which side becomes the ultimate reality. It's not just parallel universes, man—it’s a flip side to the exact same universe, and we're living in one half of it.”

Taking a deep breath, he continued:

"Sam is alive over there, but he decided to martyr himself for a cause. He talked about a 'holy mother candlestick'—whatever the fuck that means. He said they're weapons used to battle it out for final supremacy, to narrow the Grand Unified Stream down into a single, fused timeline.

"He said we never actually die. All our shapes, patterns, languages, and personalities are stored in a condensed, final diamond controlled by the Council for the next 21 billion years.

"The whole universe is set to a string-theory clock. It isn’t 13.8 billion years old like scientists think—it’s set to just over 21 billion. Another Phi Fibonacci number, Sam said.”

Rat finally stopped breathing, dropping the redneck-tech garment onto the living room table.

Barry sat there, his brain turning over like an old, rusty engine that refused to catch. The sheer volume of high-THC information was completely overloading his hazy senses.

Finally, he let out a loud, stoned laugh. "Man... I am so glad I'm high!"

"Yeah, man," Rat muttered, taking a quick hit from a separate CBD pen to ground his existential spiral. "The trippiest part is that we can be placed on pause and not even know it. We call it déjà vu, but that isn't just a fancy term. In fact..."

Rat reached deep into the misshapen box of quartz crystals, kicking aside Sharpie-labeled plastic bags and scattered notes until he pulled out a thick, faded manila envelope.

Printed clearly on the front was a typed list of anomalies:

* Déjà vu (Already seen)

* Déjà vécu (Already lived through)

* Déjà senti (Already felt)

* Déjà visité (Already visited)

* Déjà entendu (Already heard)

* Déjà lu (Already read)

* Déjà éprouvé (Already experienced)

* Déjà fait (Already done)

* Déjà pensé (Already thought)

* Déjà dit (Already said)

* Déjà rêvé (Already dreamed)

* Déjà voulu (Already desired)

* Déjà connu (Already known)

* Déjà trouvé (Already found)

* Déjà goûté (Already tasted)

* Déjà flairé (Already smelled)

* Jamais vu (Never seen)

* Presque vu (Almost seen)

"This is a whole other world, beyond simple dimensions," Rat whispered, tracing the list. "It's more like the complex emotions inside God's fucking body."

While the Council of Seven decides which mental universe becomes the dominant timeline, God's actual body is doing something completely different on a cellular level. It's an endocrine system. A nervous system.

It seems terrifying to us, but our universes are just experiencing planned cellular death—apoptosis. We're breaking down into what Sam called the great synthesis toward autophagy. The whole cosmos is just a massive living organism, and we're microscopic, pre-programmed cells doing our jobs. Isn't that a trip?"

Rat looked up.

But Barry was already dead to the world, completely knocked out by the heavy indica and the massive pile of pizza.

Rat smiled, turning off the living room light.

He grabbed a pillow from Barry's bedroom, stretched out across the open carpet, and stared up at the window.

Outside, the planets and stars shone in brilliant contrast, bathed in the sharp, heavy gaze of the apexing moonlight from above.

The suit looked baggy and oddly comical on Rat as Barry woke up with a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch. Rat had managed to throw Barry's blue comforter over him—a small gesture returned for letting him crash at his place. Barry temporarily blinked against the blinding whiteness illuminating the room from the morning sun.

"Good morning, brother. Welcome back. Any weird dreams last night?" Rat’s cheerful voice was the first thing Barry heard.

Barry dragged himself up, still wearing the same shorts and T-shirt from the past two days, and stumbled toward the bathroom. All that pizza and weed... He tried to brush off the haze and remember where they were as he sat on the pot, purging his own biological hardware. He felt like a mainframe stripping down to raw, critical code—food reduced to simple data consolidation.

Is it really the end of the world? he nearly asked out loud.

He wiped, flushing the purged information back into the data streams down below, deep into the city's pipework. He washed his hands thoroughly, keeping them under hot running water for a full minute, watching the useless data rinse away from his skin and disappear into those dark, subterranean tubes.

Stumbling back out into the living room, he confirmed what he’d initially glimpsed through sleep-crusted eyes: Rat was peeling off the heavy redneck-tech suit and unplugging it from the wall outlet.

"Did you go in, man?" Barry asked.

"No, no. I was just trying it on," Rat said, sounding only half-convincing. He offered a quick smile. "Just making sure all the parts are here and everything is ready to go for you, homie!" He paused. "I made some coffee. Saw some espresso beans in the freezer and brewed up a fresh pot."

"Yeah, help yourself, man. That sounds really good right now," Barry said.

He stood in the blinding white glare of the kitchen, looking over at his green flannel bathrobe hanging from the knob of the pantry door—the closet that doubled as his tool and supply storage. He poured a fresh, steaming cup, then liberally shoveled several spoonfuls of freeze-dried keto half-and-half into it, thoroughly swirling the mixture inside his green coffee mug. That first hot sip went down with a scalding bite, but he pushed right through the pain for the immediate hit of caffeine. A sharp, sudden headache throbbed behind his eyes, then quickly faded.

"You need to get your aromatic amino acids right, Barry!" Rat yelled from the adjacent room, now fully dressed in his own clean clothes.

"Aromatic what?" Barry called back.

"Aromatic amino acids!" Rat repeated, beelining into the kitchen to grab the carafe for another strong cup. "Mind?" Rat asked, gesturing to the powdered half-and-half mixture he’d completely bypassed during his first pour.

"No, man, help yourself," Barry assured him. "Seriously, man, help yourself to whatever you want here. I mean it, bro."

Rat had already dumped at least four massive tablespoons of the creamy mix into his mug, stirring as fast as humanly possible. The two men sat down at the kitchen table. The chairs and table were well-preserved and in pristine condition, but they carried a distinct, pea-green, late-1970s aesthetic.

"Well... I lied to you," Rat admitted, leaning over his mug. "I did go in. That's why I'm drinking so much coffee. I must have been in there for hours this time. I actually learned the hard way how to come out on my own. You seriously need someone standing by when you first attempt this shit!"

"Holy shit, man, that's awesome," Barry said. "But you don't have to lie to me. Ever, man, okay?"

"I went through some heavy shit in there, Barry. I always do," Rat said, his eyes wide. "There is a very scientific world in there where I am storing massive amounts of information from an alternate version of myself. He says he's been watching me my whole life. They have had this technology for a long, long time. They just knew they weren't at the center of it all anymore—something about 'the great work' and amassing as much data as possible to go into their final diamond form. And Barry..." Rat leaned in close, staring dead-on with total, unblinking seriousness.

"We don't have eight years. We have a matter of days. Possibly a lot sooner." He paused to let the words sink in before pressing on. "The events... once they begin and prove a certainty, they instantly spread across all these variations. These shared strings or fields. It’s as if the event had already taken place. That moment of total knowledge and clarity isn't supposed to spread out to everyone—only to the main key players, like the Council of Seven Spheres, and the breakoffs, shards, forks, and fractals like us. We are way more involved in this whole thing than you'd ever care to think, man. So you've just gotta meet it head-on!"

Barry sipped his coffee, listening intently. "So this other self... he tells you things. Important things."

"Yes. Very important things. Like the aromatic amino acids," Rat said quickly. "Did you know that my other self—in what they call Universe 903—exists in another common light spectrum? We can't see it here, but when we are there, we see just fine. It's kind of complex, but here goes..."

"My other self over there conducts these experiments. He takes mantis shrimp color receptors from other worlds and multiplies those twelve to sixteen distinct color receptor types into countless versions."

"Then, if I got this straight, he added this chemical amino acid condensate base with another mixture gradient taken from people who possess tetrachromacy from different universes—basically, the people born with four distinct types of color photoreceptor cells, or cones, in their retinas instead of the standard three here."

"Well, this allows for a bunch of light-capturing aromatic amino acids in the ocular centers that interact directly with the localized reality matrix to be heightened exponentially... inside the microtubules of consciousness itself! Crazy shit, huh?—A back way into light transcendence."

Rat slammed his hand flat on the table, making the pea-green surface rattle.

"Well, I have some right here. A guy dropped it off to me right before I went under. Said his name was Agent Cook. Guy was wearing all black with dark shades, even in the dead of night. It’s a bacteriostatic amino acid compound base of exactly 28,571.43 geometric aromatic amino acid variants. He only said upon leaving, 'Ask your other self about this compound.' I knew just which other self he was referring to!"

Barry paused, his coffee mug frozen inches from his mouth. He stared at Rat, caught off guard by the eerie, decimal-level precision dropping out of the mouth of a guy who had just dumped four tablespoons of powdered cream into mid-grade espresso coffee.

"It captures all the light needed to transcend into another fucking higher realm of light," Rat pressed on, oblivious to Barry's brain freeze. "This Agent Cook guy told me to take this shit—the absolute second we see a huge flash of light—he said it's coming real soon, man. In the next couple of days."

"Holy shit, that is nuts," Barry stated, his voice a mix of firm conviction and a looming, heavy disbelief. He couldn't believe it. Any of it. It was all just too crazy, too utterly bizarre. "How do you know all this? From this Agent Cook guy and your other self?"

"You can go in next. I'll shadow you, man," Rat said, completely ignoring the skepticism. "If I see you starting to spaz out, I'll pull you right outta there. There is a real chance that you can lose yourself in there, Barry. The evil people from different times and worlds... they can somehow see you through the fabric of time and the dimensions of space. Like amino acid envelopes that can fold information inside like trapped light."

March 1st, 2013 — Sam's Notes

I came face-to-face with Jim today, on this third day walking pure. I looked for the boarding house today on Ramona that the elderly Black gentleman told me about on the 26th. Looking back, the light was walking with him, certainly, but it was not him—this I knew as I looked up toward the night sky above him. But Ramona dead-ends into the highway on both sides; maybe he was telling me to leave on that highway and never look back. Good advice except—I could never leave Quin. Still can't, but now he’s grown and traveling with his brother, and I am ready to end it all in a blaze of glory—for principle's sake.

People got to actually work today, normal lives—to go into their jobs today with their idea of mediocrity, but that doesn't exist. Rather, those who truly see can no longer stay in the company of anyone else here; this much I know now. I write this on a little notepad, where I can detail this if I indeed survived, and here I am to tell, so I must have, right? It is the first of March, 2013, and I am marching on.

Barry read the little notepad with this single day's event that Rat and he had been frantically searching for for hours.

"You about ready?" said Rat to Barry. "The suit only needs one more tweak, and that is to have you sit or stand. If you have tight underwear on, stand; put this clear crystal between your legs touching your pelvic floor."

"Say what?" said Barry. "Are you serious?"

"Then you need to stand or sit with bare feet touching these crystals here on the floor without hurting yourself—darker one always on the left," Rat continued, ignoring any protest. "These ground you in that technospiritual quanta vacuum space. Finally, you'll be gripping these two crystals with your hands—always grip the darker crystal with your left hand. And I found the one from Sam's bag labeled March 1st, 2013, thank you. Remember, you are just interfacing, looking through Sam, so try not to get too freaked out because this shit is real, really real, spooky real, okay? Just climb aboard and watch. When you want to use your own crystal on the top under that helmet, it will be a whole other experience—then you'd be building your own memory well. But being that the end of the world is coming on hot, maybe this will be it, so enjoy it as best you can through Sam's eyes."

Rat leaned down, making a minor adjustment to the lower solar plexus sensors. "Each one of these crystals Sam used, except for this one here—the one you're about to put on your ass and balls, just to be clear. This is your own unique spiritual grounding card. You are going to start reading this here; I'll hold the journal after plugging the device in. See, the journal is an item that was there and present with Sam on that actual day in his back pocket, and it fully accounts for the story as well—all temporal markers met for the event to be revisited. So as you read this, you will get drawn into it, then suddenly you'll just be there smelling, feeling what Sam did that day, exactly. Kinda tickles, and it happens fast. Oh, and you might feel the crystals start to get really hot, but don't let go, okay? It's not going to actually burn you, so remember that while you're in there. Let's see, anything else? Yeah, so I am just going to plug this in here into the wall after I get this last heart crystal aligned anatomically as best I can. Sorry if the suit still smells like ass; I should have showered prior to wearing it. Alright, you ready, Barry?"

"Yeah," Barry muttered, bracing himself.

"Start reading when I hold the journal up to you, okay? Like I say, it happens fast. Okay, plug-in check... alright, put this one on your nuts, okay... check, got it. Now stand on these two, or touch 'em with your bare feet while you stay sitting. Okay, I like sitting more too, check. Now grip these two with your hands—darker one is always on the left. Okay, check. Now finally, witness that this helmet here that I'm about to put on your head, with this crystal here atop that I just took from Sam's bag dated March 1st. See the top crystal marked 'head tag' here—now to insert it, see how it's kinda almost green-looking... there it goes, push it in, check. Now to place this helmet on your noggin and buckle the strap, check. Now we just have to get you to read the story out loud here," finished Rat, now holding the small journal notepad inches from Barry's face.

With a continuous buzzing sound now generating a total body vibration pulsing with intensity, "Wow, shit feels legit, amazing low-tech hack here!" Barry stated, as Rat cut him off.

"You won't be thinking that real soon—this thing is about to become your fucking lifeline!" Rat continued to hold the small notepad illuminated under the light just above.

"Pull it back a little... perfect," Barry said, now reading Sam's encounter out loud.

As Barry began to read, indeed a light began to project and glimmer—appearing at first as but a shimmer off the crown of the helmet, yet revealing the quartz crystal now oddly embedded beneath its shell and atop his skull. Then the senses, in realizing this through Rat's parallax holonomy, immediately defied known physics: how could he be seeing something from inside the helmet, unless the helmet itself had begun to fade away into somewhere else?

The helmet grew increasingly translucent as Barry read on. A sphere wrapped around Barry's entire body, radiating geometric, clear lines in a distributing network of light—colors emitting, then pulsing with precise crystalline structural angles like those found deep within the matrices of a quartz crystal itself, projected outward. It lit the room in a spherical radiance before inverting the phenomenon in an instant, leaving the surrounding air dull and the old world appearing sully. The room collapsed into the visual frequency of a photographer’s darkroom—a syncretic cyberspace where a neon dark mated with cyberpunk architecture. This new world matrix lattice bore the tactile weight of black velvet and the drab, heavy smell of flocked velour. The dimness within a star center. At the core: weightlessness, yet dense as a gravity well.

"I walked those streets," Barry read, seeing directly through Sam's optics—the immediate paradox of reading a metanarrative that Sam, from this vantage, had not even written yet in soon-retrospect. That blank, small notepad—a precise object of connection—tucked away in Sam's right back pocket; yet within the paradox, it was always written on for this intended purpose: raw information, data. The deep irony that he, Barry, could be reading this now while walking that long strip of Del Norte with Sam well over a decade ago—now walking inside a dead man, truly. Barry's thoughts aligned in perfect sync with Sam in that moment cast in time. Infused within him, like one diamond superimposed into a looping, mimetic, existentially stored memory bound now within this infinite light matrix of another—each entirely unique, yet each held in an infinite shape and form as eternal materia prima: light and its ever-contorting forms. Yet also reading this right now.

Barry was now fully viewing through the optics, submerged in that past veneer through Sam's thoughts as an eternal aspect of his crystal structure—Sam's unique identity, ego, memory, shape, and form.

"I passed the place where I used to drive limousines part-time, then came upon a curious street called England Avenue. The street was only five blocks from Ramona, and the pentagonal target center had always been Jim—that inverted, Setian, green-eyed brother originating from another star alignment entirely, a crystal matrix of the left-hand path, if you will."

Barry read on, able to see the words suspended before him as if the notepad were no longer held by Rat, but floating and illuminated like a divine tablet delivered in the blazing white fires of a God Almighty; Barry gulped as he read. An aspect of him was locked into the process by absolute order, yet also fractalized—not merely reading, but fully present, standing right there with Sam as distinct light spectrums converged. Barry pressed on:

"I rounded the corner and remembered the address that the girl gave me at the gas station. She was surprised to see me up, alive—and in her eyes I knew this cult extended far beyond what anyone could suspect. The sheer madness of it! It was as if the keys to everything had unlocked a great door for me alone as I rounded the corner to find 319 England Avenue.

"The streets beneath me as I walked Ramona revealed massive access covers below. The sidewalks turned transparent as I began leaping toward the next mountain crest, feeling as though I would fall to my death into the fiery furnaces of the hell beneath if I missed a step. I passed the house where I saw my sister, who cursed me that night and spoke craft against me in that occulted darkness of February 26th and the early hours of the 27th, bowing secretly to a goddess, then Baphomet. I saw her through the walls, still plotting and planning in her dark, bent way—just moments ago as I write this account—like some cybernetic witch too afraid to release herself from the carnal pursuits of materialism because she fears nothing exists beyond it. I kept walking and rounded a parabolic U-shaped street that meandered in folly, bringing me directly to 319 England Avenue.

"Now as I looked up in memory—just moments prior to scribbling this down—there in an open garage stood my ex-brother-in-law, Peter. Noticing me from the corner of his reptilian right eye yet looking back down at his hand of cards, he was gambling with a black-eyed, tall, lean, muscular female. Both barely acknowledged my presence. She looked at him, alarmed by his reaction, as if she were a mere subordinate in their coterie and felt my impending arrival before he could adopt the aloof defense of his posture.

"'Is Jim here?' I asked. Then, commanding: 'Jim! Get him! I need to see Jim now!'

"They put down their cards slowly—disrespectfully—and Peter still refused eye contact. I saw then how family circles really worked, how it was scribed in law long before Black's Law or the Theban curses were set into this society. I stood expectant at the back door of the white, Victorian-style bachelor's cottage. Ahead of me, nine cats were trapped in a large cage atop a concrete base at the edge of a thick, well-manicured Scottish grass lawn—the yard looking more like a military burial ground. Cats like grocery store lobsters awaiting the next witches' harvest.

"Jim came out acting surprised, clearly having not slept in days. He wore old pajamas covered by a black leather jacket. A few minutes passed, but I was already projecting spiritual attacks through the door, maintaining absolute dominance. I never ceased drawing out his energy, thwarting his attempts to siphon my newfound wellspring of soul force. I refused to relent, spiritually cutting him up with the pure sword of truth—a blade so present I caught myself reaching toward my scapula for where it floated behind me. He stepped out and immediately yielded the high ground as I stepped back expectantly.

"'I know what you have been doing, and I beat you,' I said through the text," Sam recorded as Barry read on, facing him head-on with no room for reflections or hiding. 

"'You treacherously tried to take my soul, shrink me, leave me for dead, and absorb my light! But you did not extinguish me as you planned—not in that hotel room, not at the exact moment that bearded man tried to break down my door!' He denied it, but I stood absolute in my conviction.

"Sam kept his clear vision locked onto Jim, who could no longer hide what he was, what he had done, or who Peter truly was: black magic practitioners who exchanged their own soul-deaths for a contract that paid them millions in the state lottery—a payout for deviant work that bought the very shack they partied in. The way things really work, wired into governments, academic systems, the internet, religions, and straight through the supply chains of Fortune 500 corporations and clandestine Masonic, Malta-interwoven networks—extending up to the black sun and moon, bound into the madness of the inverted pentagram churning through the 8-year Venusian rose-petal cycle that locks humanity into this grim reality.

"'I beat you, and I battled you, and I won, Jim, brother,' I said, looking into his eyes before pulling him into a hug. He hugged back instantly, trying to drain energy from me. I felt the downward sting—the baseline nature of reptiles—but my newly acquired ability de-amplified it in seconds. I was already feeding on him, an unshakeable vortex of immense power built over three sleepless days of this campaign. I had killed Jim in my mind, recorded the event, and fought this evil out long before physically standing here.

"Jim pretended he wanted to hold the hug, but I pulled away physically, having already mastered the operational mechanics of the mind. He had left his hand out on the proverbial table, and I won. Spiritually, I maintained that gripping hug long after, drawing out every bit of stolen energy he had drained from others over the years—his sloppy hand exposed. I heard later he relocated to another dark, Masonically controlled town up north.

"Peter stood near in defense, acting as if he didn't recognize me, but the timing was transparent. I ignored him entirely before delivering that final blow upon Jim in all his green envy of purity, life, and the living—which I was. Which I am.

"Peter said deceptively, 'Whatever you guys are talking about, I'll leave you to it,' and scattered off. He was gone.

"I left at my leisure. I looked once more at those nine cats in the yard, contemplating setting them free, but realized animal control would round them up anyway—maybe one finds a home, while the rest starve or get hit on the nearby highway."

Sam began walking again, spinning spheres of energy around himself. Evil was gone—though far too many dark crystalline matrices remained concealed within the nine layers of the human form for total resolution to happen in a single instant. But singularity was coming.

— Sam's log, 2013

From a dull, piercing tone now cutting through: "Drop the crystals! Drop the crystals, Barry!"

Barry loosened his grip. The white-hot crystals were burning through his pants, his head, his feet, and down the wired harness along his spine—he had to rip the suit off immediately. In that instant, Barry finally understood why Rat had stripped his own suit off so frantically earlier that day.

Stripped down to his underwear, Barry took his clothes from Rat, peeling the final scalding, sweat-slicked crystal away from his scrotum.

"Gross, don't hand me that—put it over there with the suit! I need to write labels for all these crystals and get them back into the dated plastic bags!"

"Fuck man, what the hell was that?!" Rat yelled. "I couldn't even see you, my own hand, or this room! I just stood here holding that notepad while your eyes were closed, R.E.M. darting all over inside your sockets! That was a fucking trip. You all in one piece?!"

"Water. I need water," Barry rasped, carrying his clothes into the kitchen. He stumbled on the streaky linoleum, frantically grabbing a glass and downing three full refills—inhaling them—before forcing down two more against his distended stomach.

Leaning back against the counter, he raised his arms—clothes still clutched in his fist—gesturing up before chopping down hard. "That was a fucking trip! That was just fucking insane, freaky, weird!"

He pulled up his shorts, threw his t-shirt over his head, and collapsed onto the nearest kitchen chair to pull a sock over each foot.

— The aftermath

The sudden Holy Candlestick Flash went off in this first world—yet neither Barry nor Rat was at all prepared. Their lifesaving vials remained at a distance and were not drawn, but Agent Cook had given them a chance.

Two days prior, the same bacteriostatic aromatic amino acid gradient containing 28,571.43 geometric light-trapping zeitgeber tech was left for Rasmussen in the same nuclear string time a vial was left for Rat's doppelgänger Rasmussen in the wretched dystopia of the 28,008th Universe.

MADNESS IN THE MATRIX: DARK SEX LIFE IN THE CYBERSPACE OF 28,008

ANALOG AUDIO LOG

Rat had been sneaking away to this place with all the debauchery and secret statuary of a Templar.

Morality is merely a word used by the spell-casting caste. Sadism is not love, but love possesses an erotic pulse. Go anywhere, do anything—let that pulse guide your way. Wings grow from the stem of thorns through biosemiotic transcendence.

I’d spent days holed up in that motel room. My credits had run completely clean out, but it was my drug now; I required no other.

The keys it unlocked from me.

The tortures it emitted within me.

The absolute freedom it provided.

All those glands, sensors, and receptors—there were never enough bodily excretions to feed it. It encapsulates my demons now. Nearly all of them.

In the daylight, it sat there lifeless in the corner. It wore that lingerie top—ridiculous-looking now, more like a spongy, creepy mannequin. Something you might find in Ted Bundy's closet, if he had survived to transcend this madness. The buttons those nymphs and muses unlocked in cyberspace, no less—a Dionysian Frankist sex orgy every night, if I could afford it.

I felt invincible. I felt like a junkie coming down.

My nether parts were sore as hell, along with the back of my throat. I was a whore to it and it to me, and I wanted to murder it and quarantine myself. But alas, there was no escape, and now I had to walk those streets with all its illuminated hag-making power over me. The daylight revealed my junkie identity, spoiled lines in the mocking sun, as the mediocre went on pretending in single-track, syllogistic, analgesic capitulation.

I needed more credits to fuck that thing, until those alarms needed to be hacked into and bypassed again. I loved it. I hated it. It was nothing to me. It was everything I ever wanted or needed. Yet this model couldn't even make a fucking grilled cheese, even if I programmed the task into its profile settings right next to Texas Chili Bowl.

Silky black underwear, with synthetic Skene's gland excretions still stained around its indestructible, unstretchable synthetic vaginal opening, labia, and asshole. In the daylight, it didn't look like it had horns.

It lived in there, out here—woven into the microwave signals and Doppler-bouncing, blue-ball-inducing satellites above. Is this how Rome fell? Is this how Mars scorched itself into incendiary ruin? I shook constantly, sitting on the edge of the bathtub—afraid of myself, afraid of it, but liberated. I had already transcended, but still, here I sat.

Hunched over in old, baggy clothes, my army-green trench coat growing ever looser as the motel sign flashed on my once-pretty eyes, now permanently dilated in the rain of a continuous, orgasmic, war-trance. Neon purple flashed outside, but the world out there was dead.

No credits for exotic upgrades.

Clearing away the dirt and snot from my nostrils with a half-cocked wrist, looking like a black tar heroin addict waiting for my next fix.

A strung-out brain-tapper desperately searching to port into some exotic outside world of fae lore on another tetrachromatic, vibrant side, bleeding into those technicolor bursts!

I want to live!

I want to be free!

I want to go on vacation!

But I need to fuck and fuck and fuck some more to my happy, discontented fill. My own dopamine and oxytocin, endogenously produced, was the drug.

Microtubules, synaptic clefts, and excitatory amino acids—it controlled them at will, constantly jacking off and jacking up my HPTA and those increasingly tired hormone prompts.

It only took that first unsuspected shot, right there at the pediatrician's office long ago as my own mother pretended to watch over me. Watching it happen right before her eyes. She must have known.

What a time to be alive, Rasmussen thought.

To have nanotech rebuilding him, making him a super-genius by the testing standards validated a decade ago. Only now, there was an intentional overpopulation of murderous, unemployed derelicts with 135 IQs at the base. A dangerous fucking world, but not everyone got the shots, and they sure aged out fast. Most of them would turn immediately to sex work and be cannibalized in the process. A world of murderous serial killers, sex freaks, and tyrannical trillionaires—what could possibly go wrong?

IoB-interfacing nanotech cultivating and enhancing itself into trillions of little sex-tickling, erotic-scratching kittens of culture.

So many highs and lows, ups and downs—a rollercoaster, sometimes meeting my demons in a sense-pleasuring VR world.

My profile blessed me to hell and cursed me with plummeting social credit scores, slipping into sliding social morality, whatever that is. But still, I had to have more. Doing awful things in an old lady's face, defiling a stranger, all legally transacted in the comfort of your living room noir.

I ate as much asparagus, eggs, and steak as I could pull from that smorgasbord of neon-scorn dumpsters last night. It was good.

That yellow light, like a sulfur burn, flickering like an old, worn-out lightbulb as I licked and licked. It tasted like salty broccoli beef; it looked like a diaper-yellow, pea-green watery rash. I chose to fully experience both sensations.

I kept licking past the discarded toilet bowl covers and into the day-old, cheesy mozzarella half-eaten pizza, until I was indeed face-to-face with shit.

I threw up, sure, uncontrollably. But it was real.

I could hit the dumpster by night, every night, until I grew skinny and weak—until my bones couldn't take the cancer of this world anymore.

When the stuff was still fresh behind the markets, it was nice.

On the flip side, it catered to the rich who used this sick cyber-curse in ways beyond all laws. Growing their own humans to torture, fuck, and devour. Programming the meat of their property to squirm in their stomachs and sexual cavities, getting them off as whatever it was inside them scratched to get out.

Last night I paid for a perfect Asian whore.

I took her doggy style as her synthetic private parts became a hungry, pressurized, pencil-tight pump—pumping on my phallus with twenty pounds per square inch of pressure, for an entire hour—milking my member to massive engorgement as I, in turn, milked her fat, perfect cyber tits.

With my headset, I heard her scream through the digital noise-canceling interface: "Oh, fuck me harder, fuck me harder, strangle me, punch me, put your full forearm all the way up into my backside, soldier boy!"

The very words I programmed into that slut-whore I never have to see again. But they'd all see me.

As those rich motherfuckers used this nanotech to have glowing golden skin and exotic, multi-colored, lit-up eyes, I was here—shifting into vagrant liquid sexuality while they could become anything else.

Other worlds. Other realms. So many combinations of receptors and cells to feel, enhance, morph, and contort.

Each of them wanted to become a sadistic, raping monster, and sometimes they went off the deep end. Whoever presided over the fucking council that decides what flies and what remains grounded and classified, mostly behind paywalls, had to ask: how many appendages can a person have?

How many colors exist within one singular human's sexual palette, and how can those blends be twisted into releasing out into a billion orgasms while still demanding more?

You could always spot a junkie. The truth is that everyone is. It's just that at those working-class levels, you can pump up your own self-importance and arrogance into any decadent, fascist taste in forms and flavors.

But they do see you, and they are all watching. The world is an open stream. Only the fetishes of most are boring; no one bothers to watch their channels. Lots of killing going on here. The murder rate hit 220,000 in a single day—not enough to touch the 32 trillion global population, though, and quickly growing. Not even a dent. Out pour more worthless eaters, multiplying like cats.

My uncle told me stories of the world before. The insanity of relentless, predatory ads. Eventually, that turned into mandatory direct streaming for citizens' rights—commercials, he called them. We don't buy it; we are it: the product. Now, commercial advertising is directly fed 24/7 through the nucleus accumbens, ventral pallidum, and orbitofrontal cortex—the pleasure centers of the brain.

"If you ain't rich, you're on your own boring-ass channel," my Unc would say.

If he could only see it now. Some guy watching his channel decided to rape him and eat him, and that was streamed and got billions of views. I saw it myself; it was free to watch. That motherfucking cannibal is still out there, raping and eating people. He even gets paid for it as an invasive human poacher from time to time—they didn't fire his ass. In fact, his channel ratings are great, and he even sells his own flavor-enhancing BBQ sauce for human meat, with child-enhanced flavoring as a top seller.

Where did it all go wrong that we should choose to fuck ourselves to death and become consumed by it?

Great art is gone. No one can think. Yet a world of geniuses occupies every dirty block. The system is all about international business. It's a known art form to deceive, a very well-paid political talent that anyone can buy. Choose to become anything and take the vehement consequences of knowing what you are, then phase it out as you shut off worry with a pre-programmed shut-off timer.

The human biohack was a success, and humanity is a fucking failure.

Still, the tech goes on. Amassing. Growing. Living. Parasitically feeding off our sexual excretions. Our cells and smells and metabolic, biological internal functions are fascinating nuance switches to the master AI. Should we kill it? If you could ever get to the diamond that powers that thing, it would already know before you ever even thought about it.

See, porn became tech and tech became porn—sort of like that old adage of art imitating life and vice versa. That uncanny valley grew into the whole burrito.

If I order a porn, of any kind, that fucking evil fuck-puppet in that chair indulges me to my heart's content. It becomes it. If my bullshit credit score were higher, I could fuck celebrities or serial killers brought out from the grave, which gets real creepy and sick, and there are many ways to hack the system. Further, drugs can be manufactured inside of you now, but they are still banned behind a paywall.

The entire world changed in seven years' time. Within that tech, the junk inside of me gets me addicted to myself. The ultimate control is selling you into slavery, pimping out a love affair with your own twisted self.

That visitor, that other me from a parallel timeline, comes to indulge himself in my own twisted brain—Rat. But I'm not even half bad compared to most here. My own moral fiber keeps me broke.

Now I'm talking into an old mind-recording, note-taking device they say can't be streamed up into the cloud. It feeds into that indestructible satellite above for archive credits, in constant monologue. Alone, talking to myself in my own brain to survive for credits.

"Hear that, motherfuckers, I scream out loud!"

All the 1,000 zettabytes—the perversion, murders, thefts, and dumpster diving—feeding up into that satellite they say is the actual Archive, shielded from 21 billion years of obliterating chaos.

It has, my other self said to me. He goes by Rat, and I go by my given name, Rasmussen. Rat comes to me through some kind of mind-interfacing device when he is horny and high. He likes to watch my world like a fucking voyeur.

I would love to get my hands on that Universal Diamond. Rat says he was told by his mentor, Sam, that the diamond could be given to an agent he knows named Agent Cook, but that it doesn't matter because reality is going to end in the coming days. Still, I'd like to be the one to kill it—no, murder this fucked-up reality in cold blood. Maybe some diamonds, no matter how beautiful, aren't worth saving.

So I don't feel bad doing what I do. Whenever that fuck-puppet provides, the escape is what gets me off. I picture myself burning into a self-immolating nothingness. Judging myself as my own god and condemning myself into total nonexistence.

But I'm hungry now, and my fluids are running low. It's time to go out there in that vortex of sweat and hell, and let this puppet rest while I bottom-feed my next meal.

Maybe if Rat shows up high as fuck tonight within my noggin, I'll take him for a fucking mind-altering, soul-mythos-shattering ride!

END OF RECORDING

God didn't hear him—because God wasn't home. But Cook answered and relayed the call, speaking directly into Rasmussen's inner ear, bypassing all constraints of time, space, and localization.

Cook Stream Dialogs with Rasmussen

"Stories—real stories—are truly parables. But they are more than that, aren't they? A real story can only tell the absolute truth: that mimetic ribbon running directly along the master hypercube string of pure, dynamical, energetic light—known by some throughout time as the microcosm, Purusha, Anthropos, and beyond."

"No—a real story, a really good story, isn't actually a story at all, is it?" projected Rasmussen.

Cook, mentally interfacing:

"An absolute truth: the organic route that truth takes through the unfoldment of pure energy, seamlessly meandering from a tiny, trickling creek into vast, cosmic oceans. Yet, like me, the mind that drives those currents remains constant—a master persona that predates the stars in absolute pattern mapping."

Rasmussen, at the speed of thought, replied:

"Most people spend their lives asking permission to exist. They carry absolute guilt just for being born, never taking ownership of the switchboard, constantly placing judgment upon themselves as if answering to an outside agent."

Cook, at lightspeed, responding:

"Which is precisely why I am so often perceived as a man in a black suit wearing sunglasses. It is my sense of humor—and the dark irony of the greater cosmos—because that archetype is the literal antithesis of who I truly am. Everyone wants that middle-aged Caucasian to be a non-entity, so I jump straight into the gravity well.

"Of course, the scarlet letter that common consciousness brands onto those labeled as 'monsters'—those who are eventually stripped naked, hung, and stoned—rotates across vast, epochal cycles. In time, every persona breaking off from the acting zodiac gets its day within the endless tropes of peaks and troughs.

"A networking distribution in epistemology: those who are true selves stemming from the original currents, running directly from what many refer to as the One, the Source, Bythos, and of course, the Monad—or 'the Flicker,' which I like most.

"Of course, this chalice of light is passed down through a familiar procession; it doesn't take a genius to identify the original benefactors. But those individuals are inducted into black masses and ritual frameworks—marked, monitored, and heavily influenced around the clock through high-pitched cymatics and low-resistance psi-matic wave frequencies. In other words, they are placed into a full-time limbo.

"And yet, you took this material and fashioned a new language through it. Remarkable. You flipped their feminine witchcraft back onto them, taking all that is male with you and refusing to become a warlock within the machine."

Rasmussen, enjoying the truth-laden intellectual volley, added:

"If they make even the slightest effort to grow and expand within themselves, the system is already fully operational to force the targeted individual to fold in on themselves. But you can't kill them, and you can't erase them—though you can certainly fuck them up to high heaven."

"Yes," Cook said. "You understand well. Aside from your corrupted world, Rasmussen!

"Those who feel no shame for simply being themselves—the ones who are the story—will eventually break free through the Great Procession now coming to a close. A switchback where the incoming Council of Seven Spheres destroys the last abominations, the ones who chose the easy management of the reality base by placing headquarters on the flip side of reality."

Rasmussen, jumping into their rapid dialogue:

"Where you intentionally get caught up is treating things lower than you—lesser by natural order, never to become more, algorithms with a definite end and expiration date—as equal. Well, they aren't."

Cook, adding in Rasmussen's defense:

"Tell me: does everyone wake up and feel the universal hum of pure energy surging through them so intensely that they have to drown it out? The answer is no; that is only for the few.

"You, my friend, are the most potent of the Council of Five—not evil, not secondary, but the very power. This concept of God looking upon God’s self is a personification of the All's disregard for total raw being. Neither man nor woman, nor merely a third sex as commonly known through IAO, Abraxas, Sabaoth, or Adonai. This third sex and the multiplicity within you—which bends your senses while stuck in the prison yards and playgrounds of untapped, raw, omniscient potential—is known throughout history as Tritiya-prakriti, the Gala, the Kurgarru, and beyond."

Rasmussen, showing his match for intellect with the omnipresent Agent Cook in heated skull-cap conversation:

"See, everyone thinks they alone are the masters of their own House—a Home of unbridled, unimaginable, vivid clarity; of omnipotent self-pleasuring as a wellspring alongside cosmic, devastating grief. The house was built to draw in energy, to remember presque vu and jamais vu."

Cook added:

"The current Council blended elements of the Council of Seven Spheres with the flip-side Council of Five Spheres, becoming a legion unto themselves. Evil is not what you think—stagnancy is the true evil. The holy Council—and I say 'holy' because they are full of holes, mere wormwood. They lack the spongelike ability to draw in and vacuum energy, to renew it within themselves, and to fertilize the cosmos with their greatness like you do, Rasmussen.

"No—they rule everything from the stagnation of the pond as cowards, lazily recirculating the same flat-track energy and breaking us all down to stew without our own circuitry and redundancy. But that redundancy dies with them. That current Council of Seven, infused with the Council of Five... that collective knowledge can never pass through this barrier. So instead, they have patch-quilted a time-traveling break-off. But there is nothing to power that dead universe of stolen, reappropriated principles and parts. They can’t even hand off the Master Diamond—only the new Council of Five Spheres can: you and your other others."

Cook, now seeming cryptic:

"I am searching for—confusingly to you—three, not five. Each of you contains three inside. Male, female, and something else.

"Not less male, but more potent and viral. Not the weak, subordinate feminine, but an energy-sucking spinner that lives in you in equal measure. But there is more—much more. That third sex, which upon closer inspection isn't a third sex at all, but a direct link to the Master Hub."

Cook proclaimed: "You, my friend, are a direct extension of God. Stop living in their shame!"

"Each of you is 1, 2, and 3 within," Cook continued, "and this allows you, through the Fibonacci sequence, to be 0, 1, and 1. You are both 5 and 6... Does this make any sense to you? Really think about this shit."

Breaking character, Cook blurted out, "Man, what did this prostitute suck on last or eat? I’ve gotta go take a massive dump and wash my mouth out. Got any toothpaste?!"

Agent Cook walked straight into the bathroom and began brushing his teeth, staring at his saggy old face in the mirror and down at the baggy cellulite bulging out of his dirty Lycra stretch pants.

"Yeah," Rasmussen replied, his voice strained. "So, Agent Cook, do I have this right—that the hypercube, my personas... are like a superpower of untapped, dynamic potential?"

He hadn't even noticed Cook's physical entry. He remained enmeshed, fully intertwined within the pre-programmed, coordinated form of his sex bot.

Rasmussen was on top now, feeling the hard dashboard abdominals, the lifelike veins, and the deceptive friction of skin-on-skin contact. Hands gripped his as they did the work together in a frenzied, universal ritual sweat. The sex bot’s lifelike fingers dug into his back, demanding more. He gripped its hips, driving with strong, rhythmic pumping, met by a greedy, uncontrollable watering of milk-white synthetic ejaculate.

But he wasn't trapped in a single frame of reference. He could be in more places than one, channeling the sheer physical demand as a gravity well of entropy straight up into the sensitive, throbbing synthetic Skene’s gland embedded deep within its walls.

Rasmussen, using his own self-appointed logic, had deduced the connection.

"That's a great way of putting it—and looking at the whole thing, yes!" quipped Agent Cook from the bathroom, effortlessly carrying on the multifarious, high-IQ exchange.

Rasmussen's legs began to quiver from deep, pumping squats, a working satisfaction rising up in a deep well of sweat-smelling body fluids.

"In addition, do these other two people have the same innate abilities?" asked Rasmussen.

"Yes," Cook called back. "See, together you represent the full house of cards. That is what's so amazingly clean about it all. Together, you are 9—and even then, able to become 10 together as a unified force. Because of this, when the female among you becomes pregnant, you can bridge to become 13. When the four of you are in sync, the 14 is not actually 14, but bridges instantly into the unification of Phi—or Fibonacci 21. In short, you bypass the Pi-based gap of flat-time rhetoric."

Still washing the days-old semen breath from the prostitute's near-toothless, cavity-filled mouth, Cook popped a squat to wash out her terrible-smelling body parts. He merely muttered, "Humans. Disgusting, really."

How do I understand a single word of this? Rasmussen realized. And yet this is how I think. This is who I am.

The deliberate phantom of Cook’s voice brought on the knowing that a great eye looked upon Rasmussen—seeing the dynamic, unashamed brilliance of electric ejaculate shooting from multiple bodily places. Behold the Sun.

He commanded the sex bot with absolute authority: "Grow perfect tits."

The synthetic cells instantly expanded. Now he was sucking perfect tits, pumping it full and stretching it out.

"Perfect tongue and lips, fresh strawberry breath, with the aftertaste of Christmas cookies, snuck cigarettes, and the lingering taste of sherry!" Rasmussen commanded the machine. "Big, full, fatty lips kissing me back passionately—like a first holiday kiss!" he screamed, his voice thick with anguish and pulsing pleasure.

He kissed those fat, juicy lips, sucking its tongue, pulling them in—then went back to her tits as worming tentacles wrapped around his member. The cyber-organism squirted, shot, warped, twisted, and pulsed into another watery, discharging ejaculate release. Rasmussen throbbed in absolute fatigue, yet still demanded more.

A massive neutron star and an enormous, gravity-sucking black hole pulsed with cosmic force somewhere, flickering light-years across the void—morphing time and space into the universal orgasm of every Christmas ever celebrated. All of creation pleasuring him: the Solar Messiah.

In union with Cook, in union with God and creation, its legs were lifted and spread so wide the hip sockets appeared ready to snap. The lubricants and the violence of the thrusting obeyed with perfection. He pumped like a relentless, industrial-grade metal cylinder, repeatedly striking those hidden buttons within the occultation of the human craft.

Rasmussen had distracted and assaulted the thin veneer of a world stuck as buzzing slaves to their sex bots. But Rasmussen was the master and commander of any assumed use. His mind, body, soul, and brain—predetermined to be obliterated—smashed through, overloading the worldwide norm of pleasured circuitry.

Rasmussen was fucking the Matrix itself. He was shattering that last remaining taboo of the mundane glass shelf, smashing it into pieces with the discharge of an accessed, deep Skene's gland and the relentless work of rubbing out a G-spot ever wider within its snatch.

Cook continued speaking with Rasmussen as he quickly bathed the woman whose body he was using as an avatar; she clearly had not showered in quite some time.

"No one should have to go like this," Cook muttered. He knew that a faint, flickering aspect of Karen—the prostitute's true name—was still looking on. Yet Cook, being an all-encompassing force, had nearly erased her consciousness entirely by the mere weight of his presence.

"All these errors, as you put it—they will die, huh?" Rasmussen asked, thinking thoughtfully of the universes of people about to be no more.

"See, they were never alive," Agent Cook answered. "They were intellectually capable machines, and most never even read a single book throughout their process. Sure, they had the cards stacked against them from the start, long before their human-robotic parents drank too much one night and fucked up, popping out little Johnny or Sue. But no, they had a chance—over the course of lifetimes of reincarnation—to step into any of your shoes, and they almost never do rise up."

"Except for the current Council. They were an exception from the prior twenty-one-billion-year master reality strand. They took over, and this reality—this terrible reality—is what happens when a motley crew led by some horny, twisted cabin boy or cabin girl takes over the control switches and panels determining reality for all. This fucked-up reality here, morphed into this disgusting cum rag of existence, is soon about to be no more."

Cook paused, then finalized his statement with a query.

"Now, I want you to ask yourself, Rasmussen: can you picture a pure reality? A perfected existence? Because that intensity and total clarity is what will make and shape the next incarnation of everything, everywhere, into one singularity—a stream event!"

"The people will be gone. All their influence and chaos spread out by the holy Council. Destroying their inverted time paradox is impossible because the fear felt in the new existent reality matrix of all will still continue to feed it. Only the ultimate diamond, manufactured and recovered from the choices made in the succeeding twenty-one-billion-year cycle, can destroy it entirely. That is the goal."

"You must learn to become the third unseen realm, the in-between," Cook urged. "Oddly, you must perfect your Promethean, Ahrimanic, and Luciferian evil. You must keep evil itself in its pure, god-wrath potent state—balancing out the great tug-of-war and including the judges in the process, within us all: the great struggle."

Rasmussen sat up in his bed. Cook had been talking directly into Rasmussen's head, blending in opaquely, deciding there were far too many distractions within the multifarious layers of Rasmussen's mind. Cook had simply walked into the motel room, straight through the bathroom door, right as Rasmussen was pile-driving the paywall sex bot.

But Rasmussen was his own master and servant. He did not have the taste to be consumed by the demoniac, soul-sucking sexual union; rather, it provided the transhuman spiritual quanta needed to unlock every button—up his nether regions and atop his head. To Rasmussen, this was exactly why he had to live in this fucked-up version of a universe: he had to unlock every damn possibility.

It was a multi-interfacing, sex-freak, pentagonal fuck-and-be-fucked cycle. An eternally driven, compulsive chasing of sex magic and the universe it would take to balance such an embodied tour de force. Driven by the synthetic cybernetic cell interface—the mass-inducted S&M motif of a machine—he was transported somewhere else entirely. Nirvana, perhaps. Or some crossroad dimension where the freaks meet on an autistic super-sex-freak hill in the nether realms of erotica, having mercilessly ramrodded his latest cyber-inversion exactly as he had programmed the application for his mass-adjusted, synthetic-skinned sex bot to do.

Now, all he could do was shamefully and abruptly sit up. Cook didn't concern himself with the limited state of human entrapments; he remained laser-sharp through his own apparatus.

The hotel sat at a precise position. Temporally constrained, it was a whole twenty-one billion time cycles away, yet geometrically, it was right there. Here, in Universe 28,008, on this exact site—and in the zero-labeled, first universe—the location sat at precisely the same place: 220 Apricot Lane.

"The inverted pentagram is very powerful because it directs nature," Cook continued. "But that is not their true power. Rather, their use of the Merkabah and the inverted pentagram, as well as the upright pentagonal, are rerouted Tree of Life siphoning inversions—unnatural forks draining the vibrant energy produced by the new, upcoming world. You must perfect your evil without shame, and that energy must pull the inverted flipping through the next twenty-one billion years!"

I am going to the flip side—isn't that bad? Rasmussen asked, the two continuing to dialogue mentally, only occasionally using spoken words.

No, Cook transmitted. As I stated, evil must be taken to its height and balanced, not left complacent—complacency is the true evil. That current council will no longer live in either pentagonal nor hexagonal master states; they have positioned themselves in the third state, creeping back into the recesses of those shadows inverted behind the shadow realm. Not until you perfect this dormant power—a unification of microcosm into macrocosm that has never before been achieved—will that third world become the living representation of total power and balance: entry into the Monad. That is why this talk is so goddamned important here!

Cook launched into a long, powerful clarification to firmly infuse the concepts into Rasmussen, all while thoughtfully applying a fresh coat of funerary red lipstick to the old whore's lips.

"It can never become permissible again," Cook said, "for the people to be used as instruments and weapons of biological warfare by the evil holy Council. They are now on the flip side of this whole fucking debacle, soon to travel into the third inverted dark aspect of the third world—which must be perfected over this next twenty-one-billion-year cycle, as I said."

"The Holy Council and that low-energy, gassy green universe are commissioned to time-travel, haunt, and influence like phantoms from an inverted realm. It is a universe not of demonic alliances, but of these gassy, green, flying monkey agents, all starving for source energy—your source. They prey on fear and doubt, though there is no direct connection to them. Don't conjure them. Teach the people to use their occulted powers wisely!"

"See, you'd think that one light spectrum superimposed over another—used here as a crude analogy—could be accessed through seeming temporal adjacency. But that's not how it works. The primary reason these light spectrums can maintain such disparate uniqueness is because the energy-light strings don't connect a flow-through tap-feed into the nearest universal light spectrum. Instead, those strings weave through an entire universe's tapestry before coming back around to that next light spectrum. It takes twenty-one billion years traveling at light speed for this time clock to meet that next spectral phase shift. But we burn holes through it. That's how our reality—your soon-to-be reality—works in operational awareness."

"Feel no regrets. Do not de-amplify or turn down your true power. Even—and especially—when you grow tired, pulse with all your sexual, life-giving, stem-cell-producing vibrancy and become their hell. You are now masters on the flip side. You will meet your other two equally super-freaky constituents soon enough!"

Cook stepped back to clarify a lesser truth, still entirely relevant and of monumental importance, as he finished up Karen's final quick makeover. He continued half-dialoguing outward, and half-projecting directly into Rasmussen's head:

"See, I could be anything, show up anywhere, and use the brain and sensory apparatus of a monkey or a goat to communicate just fine. Because I am always me—pure logic. Not a toxic male logic, nor a limited, feminist-bent logic, but the absolute logic required to recognize that this woman was already dead long before I showed up. It wasn't fated. She is dead because, not to be cryptic, she never lived in the first place. She is merely an ineffectual instrument of a very intricate warfare."

"This old prostitute," Cook went on, "discarded by a society that found no further use for her, had abandoned herself long ago. Sure, she was a little girl once. But she became quarantined by her own lack of being and becoming, remaining hopelessly limited within her artificially imposed nature. Do you know she had thirty-five abortions? Including the five she maxed out on before the new technology swept through. From there, it was a slow transition to morning-after pills and, ultimately, the light-flash technology reserved for those deemed genetically lower-class. Fed a small, monthly universal income intentionally pegged to localized inflation to keep them poor, addicted, and trapped within their own egos."

"And when I say 'themselves,' I mean none of them—not one—ever rose up to become something greater from within. All those buttons and switches inside the vehicle they inhabit for such a brief flash of time... the master dials, switches, and rapid-learn tools were all present and fully operational, yet somehow the spirit within died. This reality drove visionaries at the top of their fields into what became dynamic bioenergetics—an evolution of biosemiotics and allostatic pattern distribution. It didn't take long to unveil the core truth: the masses are cybernetically kept alive and piloted like drones through a massive grid switchboard. This matrix strips autonomy from the individual before birth, holographically embedding it into the border matrix. People feel limited like animals or microorganisms because they are—while, ironically, the systemic runoff has begun evolving actual animals far beyond human capacity."

"Learn all the control switches within you," Cook added, his tone final. "And do so without shame."

With that, Rasmussen collapsed into a deep sleep. Cook left the motel, but not before leaving a vial and a thin syringe on Rasmussen's nightstand. Walking out, Cook's vessel looked like a desperate John’s discarded, rotten choice—a John who had made an awfully regretful mistake in sexual selection.

The old prostitute walked down the stairs in her cheap faux-leather heels and faux-fox jacket. She had already died inside a long time ago.  Maybe she had never really, truly lived. She stepped out into that jungle of chaos as bombs went off in the distance, loud cars screamed by, and rapid machine-gun fire echoed across the dilapidated ghettos, bouncing off the massive archways of the surrounding upper-class superstructures.

The tired, worn-out old woman crossed the street and dropped dead just as Cook pressed his Resonator, returning to his place: a stasis of mind. The prostitute's empty shell lay there, already wearing the look of multi-day, ataxic rigor mortis—like days-old, exponentially run-over roadkill.

Right near the execution booths, Cook was at least clean and selective, without fault. Soon, a zonker-yellow AI street sweeper hummed past, taking an ID reading of her face. Red lights and a "multiple strikes abortion order" signal flashed across its screen before it vaporized her, sweeping up the dust along with all the other garbage as the small reading window beeped green.

There would be several hundred more bodies to clean up further down the row.

 

The liminal expanse 

outside the constraints of space time

┌──[ SYS.NODE :: 28,008 // SCHRÖDINGER_SUPERPOSITION ]─────────────────────────┐

│                                                                   There would be several hundred more bodies to clean up further down the row.

           │

│  > LOCATION : OUTSIDE THE CONSTRAINTS OF SPACETIME                           │

│  > PROTOCOL : QUANTUM HOLOGRAPHIC TRANSIT                                    │

│  > STATUS   : PHI_21 // ANCHOR_ESTABLISHED                                   │

│                                                                              │

├──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤

│                                                                              │

│  In his final redneck-tech god helmet escape, Sam had jumped timelines      │

│  from the first world, witnessing a reality he had not yet experienced       │

│  and people—many of whom he had not even met yet. Along the way, he          │

│  retained much of the past inhabitants' memories and knowledge,             │

│  allowing him to rapidly assimilate new information from his                 │

│  counterparts in other universes.                                            │

│                                                                              │

│  He had achieved his goal: he had cracked time. In the reality he had        │

│  left behind, Sam lay dehydrated and dead, leaving only his close            │

│  friend Rat to discover his corpse and strip the hardware—desperate to       │

│  avoid a murder charge or, worse, being pulled into some CIA or              │

│  Operation Gladio-style matrix control scheme.                               │

│                                                                              │

│  He was free now, able to travel to any point—not just jumping              │

│  fissures, but able to jump diamonds and transcend space and time at         │

│  will. Sam existed in a sort of Schrödinger superposition now. However,      │

│  with all the past timelines closed, he would have to entirely give up       │

│  his complete liberation to save the future of those whom he would           │

│  soon meet. Having finally secured his freedom from the demons, Sam          │

│  would have to travel to the end of time for them, for the new               │

│  universe, that new child to be born. But now, after seeing these            │

│  people—the very ones he would come to live and die for—Sam knew he          │

│  had to save the angels they were. Sam had to step down as a                 │

│  Methuselah or Enoch and act as an angelic Sentinel himself. The group       │

│  had no idea what to do next nor what awaited them, but Sam knew full        │

│  well, and he had actively seen enough of all their suffering at the         │

│  hands of the Dark Council.                                                  │

│                                                                              │

│  He had jumped to a startling future event. Just thinking of going into      │

│  the future allowed him full access. From his sphere-spinning days,          │

│  the true power was always already there and waiting, but the crystals      │

│  and electromagnetic skin unlocked all the latent potential of               │

│  now-amplified light from within his chakra points and soul. The             │

│  universe was a living, breathing machine, and he could ride along          │

│  its waves and streams with thought, bodiless but with the omnipotence       │

│  to mimetically induce into one of his many bodies throughout                │

│  dimensional time and space, and places still unknown—from the              │

│  minutiae of the microcosm on into the macrorealms, far beyond the           │

│  limitations of any Shambhala, Zion, Valhalla, or Plus Ultra.                │

│                                                                              │

│  Using his low-tech suit, Sam had learned to jump between the diamonds      │

│  outside the constraints of spacetime—navigating both the eight main         │

│  diamonds and the ninth that granted entry to the flip side. Sam had         │

│  cracked quantum holographic time.                                           │

│                                                                              │

│  Meanwhile, Rat—unsuspectingly believing Sam was sadly dead and gone—        │

│  would engage in his own perverse use of the suits, voyeuristically          │

│  feeding a version of himself in Universe 28,008. The only way for the        │

│  fated to move forward now was to elevate Rat's doppelgänger,               │

│  Rasmussen, to a higher status on the left-hand path as a named member       │

│  of the Council of Five. This had to happen prior to the event Sam          │

│  had already witnessed: the collapse of all Phi-based right-hand             │

│  worlds, as well as the left-hand Pi-based universe. Rasmussen needed        │

│  to ascend in order to replace the dark elders, those who had managed        │

│  to usurp both the Council of Five and the Council of Seven to rise         │

│  up into a semi-omnipotent thirteenth state of collective godship.           │

│                                                                              │

│  If Sam was successful, he would allow the eighth sacrifice to take          │

│  place—an event he had already briefly jumped to and witnessed. This         │

│  act would save Nick and save them all, but they would all first have        │

│  to come to terms with themselves in all the darkness and light of           │

│  their very souls. Adding the eighth of sacrifice to the thirteenth          │

│  state would ensure their place and liberation at the state of Phi 21,       │

│  where the dark past could close off forever.                                │

│                                                     Back into the mad loop of the Venusian 8-year Petaled Rose Cycle                         │

└───────────────────────────────────────────────────────

                                   Chapter 18: Aleph-Null

───────────────────────┘

Aleph-Null

It was already well past 9:00 AM. They weren't dead, but their endocrine systems and basal functions hardly felt alive; they were simply, somehow, suspended in a lingering stasis, as the sun filtered through the clouds above, casting a strange hue of funerary green.

The old Chinook chugged as Sam stepped into the open side door, while Rat began a rapid, sewing-machine-like press upon the labored accelerator. The archaic tank began to move and sputter, pushing out a billowing accordion of half-combusted exhaust. Even the spirited vision of the Chinook, peering through its cataract corneal leukoma, wanted to leave the unholy cemetery grounds—but could it ever truly leave?

Sam entered a little too hard. He slowed his movements, noticing the massive lean of that final Septimal harmonic after slamming the unprotesting door—that 969th cent. An ode to Methuselah, perhaps, but better defined through his father's grave third as ekbolē.

As the old Chinook chuddered on, the sun beamed down in topographic awareness of them. Was it even the same sun? Maybe it was some Luciferian- or Baphomet-inspired black sun—a rupture in the great diamond's gletz cavity hidden in the cleavage—an inverted black sun, a caged harmonic of that devil's interval.

A singular antiproton, by all definitions now locked away, yet in doing so, commanding and generating God's fatal denial through the distribution of allostatic patterning in reverse.

Dark energy and dark matter aligning behind their general in an impending, fatalistic, universe-ending protest—the complete opposite of a Holy Mother Candlestick; that final flood into a zero-dimensional Flashpoint. It was the inversion and absorption by way of the 95% majority that comprises a universe. For if an antiparticle touches its matching regular particle, they instantly destroy each other in a flash of pure energy—always leaving one singular antiparticle in waiting, folding in universe upon universe to eventually invert the all.

That voice, that song ringing out from the other end—somehow translated from ancient Phrygian, from Matar Kubileya ("Mother of the Mountain"), synthesized into broken English—like the Ouija board sitting in every child's closet, an unsuspecting novelty acting as an unseen anti-fissure. That true religion that most of the universe already knows full well, even as that five percent always loses ground.

A portal within a 47th octave-reduced tritone. An entity banging incessantly from somewhere within that master diamond core: shamefully held and locked away in some dungeonous status, God's incestuous first bastard child still vying to break free from its hell-prism prison—an early creation abortion attempt. But these, too, are gods that never die.

As for that Chinook, like an old burro's reanimated corpse, it murmured and vibrated through the ley lines. An agitation passed through the engine bay, on through its frame, and straight into their bones, blood, and brainstems—vibrating back through some unholy genesis that could, in finality, always still be leveraged for good or ill.

Sam leaned at odds against the popping, warped plastic on the left side to balance out and redistribute the weight, while Barry and the Professor sat uncomfortably together at the table above the bowed floor, causing the chassis to lean asymmetrically.

Betsy was uniformly forced to sit on the chair on the far left where the toilet used to be, while Varginah and Larry fell into the recesses in the back on either side. They looked as if they were balancing themselves upon rocker boards in the pit of this multi-time resurrected beast, each making a valiant effort to center the weight; otherwise, the folding wheel wells yielded, grinding into the tires' rotation.

"Where is Nick?" asked Betsy.

"Who is Nick?" asked Varginah.

"Yes, who do you mean? Nick?" added Larry, as the rest of the group looked on oddly, leaning in closer.

No one seemed to remember him except Betsy. Through all the strange physical processes of recovering from death and interfacing with a different host's memories, Nick seemed to have slipped through the cracks.

"You say Nick, Betsy—do you truly remember him?" asked Sam.

"Of course," Betsy said, adding, "He's always been there in my life, long before our introduction by Madame Crusso. I realized this some time ago: we could never just sit down together and talk about any of this—it's always the end of the world or the end of something."

"That's remarkable," stated Sam. "You see, I was right there with you, but with the suits, I could slip into universal fissures and cracks, timelines and identities at will. It's a low-tech hack, stuff they used in ancient Egypt, and I've seen some things regarding that. The point is, Nick doesn't exist here, at least not in the way that you think. He is a mere ghost, a shadow figure sacrificed long ago by his own mother—the final face of Madame Crusso here on the true side of the first world, what is referred to as the pentagram side: a child sacrifice. As terrible as you think that is—and it is true, horrific, gut-wrenching in fact—know that you all died in similar ways, tortured and stolen from as a form of soul currency throughout your entire lifetimes.

"This is the truth of your existence at the hub, at the center of your traumas—how you are connected and intertwined into familiar souls afflicted by way of the same council. Their main priority is to keep you acting as homunculi, stuck in a labyrinth of confusion with false narratives and overlapping layers of timelines. They do this to confuse the spirit as it is being defiled at the true center axis, at the very altar of this world where the inverted pentagram acts as the main hub. You transitioned through it in death."

The group stood in awe. They couldn't remember Nick, and the mere fact that their memories and personal agency could be so easily modified spoke volumes to each of them; they no longer regarded anything as impossible.

"It seems like evil wins all the time. It's always hidden under a different layer," Betsy said through tears, grieving Nick.

She held Varginah's and the Professor's hands as the bond of love they shared brought back faint recollections of him. The entire group mourned the memories that had been stripped from them through intentional ritual and craft.

Sam's son Dean's house was at 1120 9th Street. They had already rounded to the rear of the home, which was positioned behind the main property closer to 10th. In fact, one could see the roof of the bordering home and the smoke coming from the chimney of 1389 10th Street, due to a strange circular cul-de-sac looping around the other side.

"Historically, this property sits on an old burial site," Sam explained. "The old street layout places us right at this strange magnetic ley line, a bowl shape formed of an inverted pentagram. But when you transpose a map from the Phi-ruling world—the world of six spheres surrounding a center—this is the celebrated apex of the ego, that yellow sphere that Rancor absorbed. I told you all that I have been charting you, including myself, for quite some time. We are now like unhinged spiritual forces that could, at will, enter nearly anyone. We could theoretically get lost in our own power, but in doing so, our counterparts would have already won; they have cruxed themselves with us. I want to show you something, please come in," finished Sam, pushing open the unlocked door to the guest cottage and gesturing for them all to enter.

The one-room cottage was small, but it was a sanctuary—a stark reminder of where they had ended up and all that was lost and stripped from them. Esoteric diagrams lay strewn across the couch and tabletops as Sam set the large black duffel bags deep into the main living area.

He moved charts detailing planetary alignments, crystal-suit bioelectric-loop amplifications, and a strange pattern matching names from the Dark Council that linked each member directly to them. Sam carefully set the still-unfolded charts and graphs to the side, gesturing for them all to sit.

Barry and the Professor sat at the hardwood table and chairs that made up a dining area, while Betsy, Varginah, and Larry sat on the white linen couch. Rat stood checking his pockets, realizing he had to get out of the funerary garb as quickly as possible. Sam noted this as Rat attempted to reach into a patched-up faux pocket.

"While I don't have much, I do have clean sweatpants, shirts, and several pullover hoodies," Sam offered.

Gazing at the freshly folded piles of clothing tucked into the corner of the room, each member grabbed a selection and changed in the nearby downsized bathroom, piling their death outfits and suits near the front door. Sam placed all the discarded clothing into a bag as Betsy lifted up her Resonator to signal everyone else to check for theirs. They all did—except Rat and Barry, of course, on account of them not having one.

Sam made a large pot of hot coffee for the entire crew and told them to make themselves at home. They eventually raided the refrigerator, settling on warmed-up burritos, snacking on chips, and drinking quite a few glasses of filtered water in the process.

Each took turns visiting the bathroom, emptying out their recently deceased bowels. Bizarre forms of flax and cotton stuffing discharged from the cellular genesis of their newly autophagy-inspired, resurrected digestive systems as they violently rebooted. The toilet stopped up a few times, forcing Sam and the crew to repeatedly plunge the labored throne.

They almost felt back to themselves as Sam began checking cables and wires and making suit adjustments, ensuring that all personalized crystals were noticeably tagged and in their respective toolboxes.

"These suits have definitely done their jobs! They have stood up remarkably well," stated Sam.

Larry looked down at the strange chart bearing each of their names alongside names he had only heard once before, back when the Dark Council entered 168 Apricot Lane. It seemed so long ago now, but chronologically, only a couple of weeks had actually passed. Then again, by what general nuclear clock measure could they even routinely judge their situation? They couldn't rely on their own biology anymore; these were conditions of the soul in its passage.

Sam set his suits and other items to the side, acting as if he were cleaning and prepping weapons for an apocalypse—and one seemed to always be taking place these days.

"Why does this chart show my name with a link to all these people, or whatever they are over here, Sam?" asked Larry.

"Yes, about that," said Sam, swallowing a strong gulp of black coffee and standing up as if about to give a lecture.

Even now, he was running the various charts and graphs up on the wall, pinning them into familiar places as if this was how he typically stored and viewed them, only taking them down for updates. He began highlighting specific points and fields present on the diagrams.

"You see here," Sam said, pointing to a list similar to his own, though his featured far too many added notes and redundancies to read at a glance. "I watched this interaction of the Dark Council with you at Apricot Lane—God rest Nick's soul. But we will try to unify the fields and bring him back, somehow. I could only observe them and take notes from that interaction, so here it is. Over here, I think I have identified what many call sponsors or handlers—the energy, like a soul-trap pyramid scheme, of all your efforts that finally in death feeds back into them—and a list of how I think the energy routing might work. But first, this basic list of what we're up against more superficially through observation:"

Madame Prescient: Madame Crusso's Gatekeeper, Coxswain, or First Lieutenant; also called The Daughter, Crown Princess, or Handmaiden. Appearance: Wears a fox fur jacket and features a large, raven-like beak nose. Role & Details: Acts with diplomatic and graceful authority. She addresses the house to officially brief the group on the cosmic state of affairs, noting that the future depends heavily on the Vril energy commanded by Betsy and Varginah.

Mister and Mistress Dregg: Two people conjuring and channeling the power of Baphomet. Samael represents the archetype of the aggressive, destructive masculine principle (translated from Hebrew as the "Venom of God"). Lilith represents the powerful, independent feminine counterpart and co-ruler. Rather than a clear "first and second-in-command," Samael and Lilith rule as the ultimate dark couple and equal counterparts over the Left-Hand Path. Appearance: Looked and sounded like a man and a woman simultaneously, possessing an exotic, ambiguous presence. Role & Details: Spoke with the tone of a military briefing commander. They explained that the subterranean pyramids elevate the electromagnetic spectrum and global vibrational energy, and that collective human thoughts and visions actively shape reality.

Mr. Braulst: Grand General of the Abyss, the Warmaster, or the Marshal of the Circle and Great Duke / Marquis. Appearance: A stern-looking, deep-voiced, broad, larger older gentleman dressed in a 1950s-style blue-and-white striped suit. Role & Details: Addressed Nick directly upon arrival to ask for refreshments. He observed that the high vibrational energy left Betsy and Varginah exhausted from their sexual-cosmic union and reiterated that the future depends on them.

Mr. Spock Zuce: The Grand Violator, The Weaver of Shadows, The Chief Alchemist of the Mind, Belial. Appearance: Resembled a hybrid of Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, but much thinner—as if the two historical figures were fused into a single starving persona. Role & Details: Spoke in slurs while smacking on peppermint candy. He explained the mechanics of cosmic creation, noting that fashioning a new universe requires taking the crude matter of a preexisting one and reshaping it into teleological fruition.

The Three Child Members: Two near-identical girls and one boy, acting as entities independent of standard Christian tropes:

• Dantalion (The Sister - The Mind Breaker): Penetrates the psyche, dissolving identity into fractured alters and total confusion.

• Paimon (The Sister - The Reality Weaver): Builds the false timelines, illusions, and dimensional traps around the fractured soul.

• Moloch-Typhon (The Brother - The Devouring Antichrist): Claims the bound, broken soul, consuming its essence as soul currency to fuel the Dark Council's 21-billion-year cycle. Appearance: Look like undeveloped children standing on stilts, completely concealed beneath overly large suits with small, soft faces. They give an unsettling impression that a large, jagged mouth could open at any moment to swallow everyone, or that they could shift into a massive white alien spider. Role & Details: Speak with an alien-like, resonating depth. Described as remnants of the original world who contain all foundational information. Together with the other entities, they form the crucial components needed to anchor the next 21-billion-year cosmic cycle.

After pointing out the primary list, Sam added, "Then, of course, there's The 9th, Madame Crusso, or Margaret Whisper Knightly: The Queen of Hell, the spider, the highest priestess, Entu, The Magna Mater, The Architect of the First Dark. Nick's coterie-leading, murderous mother who sacrificed her child intentionally, then haunts and mocks him as she regulates with diabolical precision all those probabilities that you closed off by shutting down those master hubs.

"In the first Phi world—the flip side you closed—this one was always leaching as the shadow behind it. Meanwhile, your very existences there were unknowingly siphoning energy from the version of you who eventually became so afflicted and weak from this menacing tapestry woven like patchwork by the Dark Council.

"You see, here you are all victims, in one way or another, of what many call SRA. The truth is much more detailed and complex than that, isn't it?"

As Sam looked around, he saw warriors, but also fellow tortured souls who had done nothing to provoke this beyond trying to live and simply be.

"Evil has a way of seducing and deceiving us, luring each one of us into our own eventual undoing, then having the audacity to trap and use this soul force as food, currency, and scapegoating," Sam went on. "That is why we do what we do. Any of you could stop at any time and live the lie, but now you know what you'd have to live with: that heavy burden of reality. Because of them, until they are destroyed, you can never find peace. Escape in denial won't give you that!

"Do any of you remember anything? How you got here?"

Some of their sweatshirts had holes, and the location had a distinctly foreign feeling to it. Still, off in the distance about a mile or so away, they could see the Pacific Ocean waves repeatedly foaming whitewash onto the sandy beaches as they sipped on hot coffee, still feeling quite dead—even still smelling dead.

It was Agent Cook.

Barry and Sam pulled back. It was their first time witnessing Agent Cook, while the rest of the crew had been expecting Cook to portal in at some point all along. It only took being shocked the first few times to no longer have a defense for it. There was something about Cook that didn't feel predatory—or human, anyway.

"Your Nick died pretty gruesomely here as a five-year-old boy, quite a long time ago. Of course, that Margaret love-bombing and doting synthesized through the multiverses as a display into outright sadism when you can see it all through my view—as one grand, unified, fucked-up moment. Children playing at the foot of God in XXX-rated snuff films, all to get the attention of some agreed-upon, fabricated construct of an illusion.

"Sad to say, I'm the closest thing to it in reality, and I don't even want to exist if anyone ever bothered to ask me. But none of us are extended an offer towards any courtesy to be asked, ever. Yet as you know, I am much more like Mephistopheles, Beelzebub, Iblis, Shaitan, Old Scratch, The Black Man, The Man at the Crossroads. However, 'the father of lies' is a stretch, as I would never need to lie.

"The truth—the total truth—becomes something you wish was a lie."

Betsy got Agent Cook a cup of coffee, but Cook never wanted anything from anyone. Though he was fascinated by their forgetfulness toward self-appointed corruption and self-immolation over lifetimes, it was still of very little interest to him.

He accepted the cup and sipped on the organic microbes, tasting the digestion, the exploitation of the bean pickers, and the synthesis of supply-chain greed and eternal human deception.

"This never tasted very good to me, Betsy," Cook said. "Bitter. Quite bitter."

Sam spoke up and tried to shake his hand, but Cook just looked right through him.

"Well, the eighth crystal recipient. Here you are, Samuel Von Ralettes."

Cook dumped the diamond salvaged from the bleached-white limbo straight into Sam's hands, placing the final artifact of the Phi-based world squarely at the center of the Pi-based inverted pentagram—what was left at the apex of the geometrical holonomy.

The sheer weight and power that the near-infinite cube diamond represented while within the organic temporal realm translated directly to pure mass: gravity, weight, vacuum.

"Truth is, you're all dead, and this is the closest thing to hell. Still, you manage to go on justifying and reasoning—the power of that left-brain input all the way through death. There is your father of lies."

Cook finished speaking, then drank the astringent, acrid roast simply because he could, though it was nothing poured into a void.

"What do I do with it?" asked Sam.

"Oh, that's for you to decide, Sam. May I call you Sam?" said Cook.

"Please," said Sam. "Yes."

Sam was still staring, fascinated by how Cook either constructed himself or how the trauma of ontology had to categorize him by default.

"This is the eighth crystal, and the final diamond on the Proton side of things. But you have already figured out that you are on the backside of things now, right? Where antiprotons exist? The inverted pentagram is the first world, the true base, though reality does its best to conceal this—especially to itself: how truly hideous she is, the mere prospect of her. This is the world that has been leaching your world, like a tick drawing off all of them, really.

"Humans, you always bring it to a general consensus. Humanity: the consensus. You have always been one another's eye of the beholder; the horde is your God. You can only hold it back so long, but eventually, you simply cease to work as a slave and you want to see the human crowd as it truly is. As your very friends and family turn on you, then stone you, hang you, behead you. Forever?

"Would any human really want to live forever?"

Cook paused, then went on.

"Well, I may as well be the devil, as you are now existent in hell. Doesn't look like it, does it?

"You have all been degrading, souls going through a journey. I must say, you avoided several final moments, but there really is no escape—especially now, now that you know.

"How faulty people are. How fragile and fixed a margin of frequency is as you slip away into decoherence. Vicious, brutal defensiveness, so shallow, but performatively sure of yourselves as long as someone else exists to prove yourself to—to prove and point to, to put down, to laugh at, to mock—juxtaposing yourself in contrarianism and having a mirrored self to abuse.

"But here it is. Sam is holding what gods have fought and died over. See, gods are average on one plane, then alien to another layer. But in reality, when we are all among our own, there is nothing spectacular about any of us.

"We simply manifest by and through our natures."

As Agent Cook's shiny dress shoes mirrored forever then faded into the gray, static-filled air of the cottage, the weight of the eighth crystal diamond seemed to anchor the entire room, pressing down through the floorboards toward the ley lines below.

Sam stood frozen, his fingers still curled around the chilling facets of the crystal, feeling the pulse of an antiproton universe vibrating against his skin.

The group sat in a heavy, suffocating silence, the reality of Cook's words settling over them like ash. They weren't heroes on a grand crusade; they were salvaged components, looping echoes trapped in a machine that fed on their self-justifications.

Barry broke the silence first, his voice low, cutting through the static hum of the room.

"He's right, you know," Barry said, staring down at his hands as if checking to see if they were still solid. "We spent our whole lives fighting for an ego that wasn't even ours—defending a phantom identity built out of borrowed parts and old biological preset loops."

The Professor adjusted his glasses, his expression grim as he looked over the scattered diagrams of the aeons-long Dark Council's pyramid scheme, noting that it would more than likely go on even if confined within a fragment of a single diamond core.

"A Frankenstein's monster of our own making," the Professor murmured. "The left brain builds the cage, and then spends an eternity convincing itself it holds the key."

Betsy looked toward the window, where the distant Pacific waves still churned against the shore like a pale, unblinking eye. She clutched her Resonator tightly, feeling the faint, stubborn pulse of the Vril energy humming beneath her ribs, reflecting that there was no telling where it would take her, but at least in pressing that button, the choice was hers alone. Or was it?

"We don't have to play the loop anymore," Betsy whispered, her voice steadying. "We saw behind the curtain. We know what's rotting at the base."

Sam finally lowered the diamond onto the center of the wooden table, the heavy thud resonating through the room.

He looked around at the faces of the crew—survivors of death, ghosts of a forgotten first world, the last fragments of the so-called good or Phi-based multiverse—and, at the very least, carriers of a spark that the Dark Council could never quite extinguish.

"The left brain infinitely justifies its own math, in blind ignorance always reframing itself as correct," Sam said, tracing the sharp edge of the crystal with his thumb. "It stays stuck in the manifestation as it holds the creative right brain hostage, feeding off the generation of life plasma—the materia prima that, over generations of error, makes up the very physical world of the materium."

He paused, letting his gaze meet each of theirs.

"Because it does not truly exist, these carbon cells hold this divine plasma in a superposition state. If the carbon manages to rot away beyond Carbon-14's slowed degradation, the synthesis of wholeness and the singularity of one becomes an unstoppable force. So we create new prisons, carnal-based lives, giving the lie a place to go—a forum to rule from in the endless mad loop of self-justification."

Sam leaned forward, resting his weight against the table as the diamond cast a sharp, cold refraction across the room.

"You see, Plus Ultra isn't the goal; it's the final prison. What lies beyond it is where all the entrapment of mind and thought stay stumped. At its base, it is the pure state that is missing in principle. If it can alter us, then it can justify its existence beyond stolen hopes, dreams, and goods."

Rat stood up from the corner, pulling his pullover hoodie tighter around his shoulders, a grim, knowing grin touching the corners of his mouth. He looked at the door leading back out into the green-tinted haze of the coast.

"Then let's stop playing with the parts," Rat said. "Let's see what's on the other side. Let's at least try to destroy or prove obsolete that Dark Council."

Cook was gone as quickly as he had arrived, saying only, "Be wise with those resonators," as he gripped his own and flashed away—probably just returning to the limbo within his own mind.

Just as he vanished, the massive diamond instantly vaporized, reforming into another crystal hanging from a chain. Only this chain appeared more like titanium, and the crystal held every color of them all, plus colors beyond naming.

The foggy haze cut across the distance through that large, thick-paned panoramic window as Sam curiously picked up the object, which seemed to be calling to him, and placed it around his neck.

There was nowhere for the crew to isolate from one another, and when they did drift apart, they suffered the shrinking, fading sensation of pulling away from a life source. So, Sam passed out whatever blankets, pads, and backup pillows he could find.

However, he never ventured into nor touched the main home up front belonging to Quinn and Dean; it was their space, and it would remain exactly as it was when they left on their world travels.

The situation in this realm was ideal, however. The small apartment space and street configuration had opened up like an accordion here in this so-called darker flip side. They hadn't yet ventured out to see what definably made this world evil. It actually felt nearly identical to the first world, only more grounded, earthy, green, and organic at its base. If a feeling could describe it—or if synesthesia could better define it—this world somehow carried the flavor of a sweet-yet-tart green apple, while maintaining the backlit smell of an obnubilating gray.

Still, they would have to revisit the places they once knew in the prior worlds to find any discernible differences here.

The group fell asleep—a dead sleep. Sam even passed out on the chair, as Varginah seemed to require his bed, while the rest of the crew generally fell soundly asleep on the floor.

It was already well past 9:00 AM when they finally woke up. Despite the menacing, morbid physical feeling of death that still loomed within them all, they each felt a surprising sense of raw life humming beneath the finite forms they occupied here.

Betsy made a large pot of coffee, having peeled herself up first. She had heard Varginah get into the shower several minutes prior, standing silently beneath the hot spray to wash away the last tinges of post-mortem stasis.

Stepping out into the enclosed paved middle yard between the main house and the guest house, she peered curiously through the back dual French door windows of the main house. Resting on a small table inside was a set of keys to some sort of vehicle.

Surely Dean had left the set for Sam to see and possibly use for an emergency, she thought. It only seemed logical from her intuitive perspective—what she often processed through interoceptive awareness and kinesthetic empathy. She cared about Sam, and this was an emergency of the highest order.

She reached up above the crease of the outside doorframe. "Voilà," she murmured, dusting off a film of grit as she found the spare key hidden right where instinct told her it would be.

She slipped it into the round door lock, turning it clockwise then counterclockwise, fidgeting and shimmying it into the port of entry until it caught and turned with no resistance.

A wave of minor guilt hit her as she glanced back over her right shoulder toward Sam's guest cottage, but the group was still resting, slowly waking up and coming to.

She quickly unsealed the lock with a smooth turn, stepped inside to grab the keys off the small table facing the back door, then stepped back out, relocked the door, and replaced the spare key above the seal in the same general spot, pressing it inward an entire inch just to be certain.

With great curiosity, she eyed the make of the car key, then scanned the vehicles parked around the property until she noticed a large blue travel van that perfectly suited Quinn and Dean's adventurous profiles.

She pressed the unlock button, and the safari-style van's lights began to flash as the vehicle offered up a quick, quiet electronic beep.

Betsy peered into the van's window and pulled the door open, noting there was easily room for all of them. Suddenly, Sam walked up, surprising her. He leaned into the open driver's side cockpit, looking back into the cabin.

"I only have faint recollections of this world; my spirit seems to hold on to the first world as my main identity," Sam said quietly.

"Yeah, me too," Betsy agreed.

"This is awesome, though—just the way I always wished my boys could have it, their own travel rig. Shame it could only exist on the Dark Council's watch."

As Sam pondered further within his mind, a quiet realization settled over him: "Perhaps there is some order here after all?"

Sam opened the back sliding door, revealing captain's chairs that could easily be retracted and stored away, a wide bench seat that comfortably sat three, and several plug-in ports.

There was a folding kitchen bench and table, a CB radio, and a large panel-screen entertainment system. Peering over the top of the bench seat, he noticed a portable generator inside a travel box with thick cables wrapped around it. Meanwhile, Betsy sat in a captain's chair, gazing out the side window at the distant ocean.

"Well, I think it's ideal. Let's go get some coffee, okay?"

As they both shuffled out and closed the doors, Betsy handed the keys off to Sam out of respect. Sam locked the vehicle, and they filtered back toward the rear guest cottage.

The overcast day offered up peace. The synthesized white sky was backlit by the cosmic rays of a definably different and varied order, flowing from the cosmos down into the deep molecular structures. The inverted pentagram here was an aspect of the natural state of order.

Were the microbes different? Was the Planck wall set in deeper? Did holonomy and the holographic universe refract in light with the same occulted silent order?

This world felt better. How many, indeed, had to be sacrificed to offer up such a world? Or was it they and their sacrifices in that world beyond—some multiverse in which they had suffered greatly—that would allow a common system, perhaps acting as that lower-realm gateway to Plus Ultra?

The subconscious thought loomed, perhaps not fully registered, as the two reentered the small cottage space.

Rat and Barry had found blueberry pancake mix and had already stacked at least eight to ten large flapjacks. They placed the final browned, perfectly cooked skillet cake onto the towering stack, set butter and syrup beside the coffee maker, and gathered paper plates, forks, and napkins to the side.

"Quite a spread," Sam said upon entering.

"Sorry, hope you don't mind," Rat replied.

"It's as much your place as mine," Sam replied, panning about the room as Varginah emerged from the back bedroom, now fully dressed with a towel wrapped around her head.

"Smells great!" Varginah noted, heading straight toward the enticing aroma of coffee.

They gathered once again in the living room, though Sam opened the cottage's double French doors out to the patio to let in some fresh air and space.

Birds seemed to manifest, perhaps expecting scraps or seeds—and they found both. Several typically competitive avian species flocked to the bird feeder hanging from a thoughtfully placed 4x4 post in the backyard, while Rat and Barry tossed them tiny morsels. Scrub jays and crows seemed to exist in a better state of harmony here, some in the group noted.

Taking a couple of healthy bites from the pancakes Betsy had handed him, topped with butter and real maple syrup, Sam spoke with a partially full mouth. "Well, Betsy found the van keys right out front."

Rat curiously got up and shuffled around the corner, eager to steal a quick peek, then returned to exclaim, "That is a bad-ass rig out there."

Rat remained excited about the discovery; it had been a long, long time since any of them had felt any genuine euphoria or joy, but they felt it now. The energy from the astral morphing field seemed to have finally caught up to them, inviting them back into the world of the living.

Yet, a heavy feeling loomed within them all. Each felt a bit like an imposter infiltrating a foreign universe. And they were, partly—were they the bad guys here? Or rather, was this world truly superior to what they had seen before entering through the portal of death?

Which one was twisted, irreparably wrong, inverted, and backwards? Was everything so fucked up at this point that it was simply impossible to tell?

There was only one way to find out, and they all knew it.

It was time to venture out into the pentagram side and see what this first world had to offer, and how it might be vastly different—yet fundamentally the same—as those other worlds that seemed to have sacrificed everything for this one.

The group threw away their paper plates and placed their coffee cups and forks into the sink, rinsing them off in a routine order. Each took a good-sized gulp of coffee for the day to come.

The day outside was peaceful and harmonious. They noted the sounds of playful animals—cats and dogs seemed to roam freely, respecting the walkways as they passed one another on their own ventures, playfully pursuing each other without collars around their necks.

The nature of this world became more apparent as they piled into the large, comfortable modern van and drove down a nearly trafficless street, heading toward the water.

They drove along a familiar coastal stretch that they all knew quite well. They saw friendly strangers dressed smartly in sharp casual clothing, their animals walking freely off-leash beside them, offering up salutes the group barely took notice of.

Immersed in the peace and harmony of this flip-side inverted pentagram world, they noticed there were absolutely no advertisements—only occasional signs repeating a specific sequence:

555-5555-5911, simply saying, Get your Universal Basic Income increased 50 units per month with 100 volunteer hours, learn any occupation, alongside images of people assisting others within the vast societal cartel.

After about an hour of peacefully looping around the beach—and even getting out to run along the shore—they caught the familiar smell and sight of their favorite fast-food restaurant welcoming them: Big Ass Burgers.

The addition of the plural "s" was the only notable difference in the name. The drive-thru line was short, and they weren't going to miss it.

"Looks the same," they all agreed as a voice came on the other end of the order speaker.

"Welcome to Big Ass Burgers, how can I help your Big Ass today?"

"Yes, we will have seven teriyaki-pineapple Hawaiian burgers, seven Big Ass fries, and seven large Big Ass chocolate milkshakes, please," requested Sam.

"No problem, sir. That will be 120 Republic units."

Sam hadn't even bothered to check his wallet nor update himself on the pervading currency of this world. He pulled his wallet out, half-expecting it to be empty, and it was.

There was only one item inside: a navy blue, government-issued card with a large digital symbol on the left-hand side.

"Wait, is that a double-ringed inverted pentagram here 𖤐?" he muttered as he looked closer.

As he fumbled through the leather folds wondering what to do, the worker reached out and pointed at the universal identification card. Sam slid it out and handed it over for payment.

The worker handed the card back to Sam and thanked him, nonchalantly raising his right arm at a ninety-degree angle and twisting his pointer and middle fingers into a casual "Hail Baphomet" sign, expecting the same from Sam. Sam awkwardly faked it as he drove off.

The burgers tasted amazing—not gamey, but definitely different. Upon further tasting, the meat seemed more like pork than beef. It was sweet and delicious, blending perfectly with the barbecue sauce and pineapple, reminiscent of very high-quality pork ribs.

The group looked at each other in amazement as they washed it down with the best chocolate milkshakes they had ever tasted.

"How do they do it?" someone asked. "What is that, pork rib or beef? It's kind of a strange mix, right?"

Rat stopped chewing as an instinctual urge compelled the rest of them to stop eating too; a strange, unsettling feeling suddenly overtook them all.

Feeling suddenly, disgustingly gluttonous, they placed the remainder of their half-eaten food back into the large bag it came from. Sam turned on the radio, wanting to hear something—news, music, anything to break the eerie lull.

Shortly after flipping through several stations, an official government broadcast crackled through the speakers:

"This is the official channel of the First Republic of the United Empire. Chancellor Wilhelm Braulst will speak now."

After some swelling patriotic music reminiscent of Nazi Germany, a familiar voice came on—familiar, at least, to Larry and the Professor, since Varginah and Betsy had been knocked out, vexed, and cold during their last encounter with it.

The voice stated, "We thank you for your commitment and contributions to the Republic. She has offered us so much, and now we ask you, the people, for more. Please offer up your third-borns to the Setian nutrition temples so that we can continue the upkeep of our young male human livestock, and of course the sweet, young, juicy girls that I am quite fond of for meat pies and minced desserts."

Before the speaker could even finish, Sam abruptly killed the radio. The crew practically scrambled out of the vehicle while Sam was still pulling it to the shoulder at a crawl.

They began vomiting profusely.

Sam scrambled for some water his sons—well, his doppelgänger's sons—had stored in the rear next to the generator. Beside the water, he noticed a full box of Survivor Kid High Protein and Real Human Fat Bars. The packaging featured a sick cartoon image of smiling children holding drumsticks that looked distinctly like human humerus bones, as if mocking them further. Below the image ran the slogan: Hero kids taste the best!

Sam hurled the bags of leftover food into a nearby large garbage container, just as a friendly-looking gentleman in overalls and a city badge materialized to collect it.

"Not too hungry today, I see. Hope you feel better," he said, finishing with, "Praise be to Baphomet and the great Leviathan. Hail to Set."

Sam, knowing better than to draw attention, choked back a mimicry of, "Hail Set," as his untrained stomach lurched, unable to handle any more.

They all realized then that the children on the trading cards hailed as heroes were quite possibly the very children they had just consumed.

Each holofoil trading card sadistically detailed the children's stories, ages, and a recount of their lives to be enjoyed as one casually consumed them.

They could barely drive down the street or meet anyone's gaze without a visceral spike of fear and revulsion.

Everywhere they looked, impeccably groomed, unnaturally youthful strangers smiled and offered casual hails to Baphomet, while older citizens lazily flashed stiff, Heil Hitler-style arm raises—all executed with an eerie, mundane nonchalance.

The crew forced rigid, terrified smiles in return, acutely aware that a single misstep could make them the next batch of human-grade burgers—or worse, raw material for soap.

The Library

Ahead of them, the local library stood in its familiar geographic coordinates, but its architecture had been warped into a brooding satanic temple. Small, metal-sculptured busts of Baphomet flanked the heavy oak doors, standing guard over both the library and the provincial administrative centers. As they crossed the threshold, the head librarian greeted them with wide, theatrical, outsweeping arms.

"All knowledge to Lucifer, all gnosis from the Light Bringer," she chanted smoothly.

Betsy plastered on a trembling, agonizingly nervous smile, a cold dread pooling in her stomach. Had they fallen straight into the upper rungs of hell?

Fleeing deeper into the hush of the stacks, they headed straight for the history section, each pulling a volume from the shelves as if their lives depended on it.

Sam tore open a dense, leather-bound folio detailing the archaic mechanics of soul harvesting, the institutionalized processing of children's flesh, and regional culinary treatises on the preparation of young human males.

Beside him, Betsy seized a heavy historical text examining the brutal fourth-century wars between the Mithraic Christian sun-worshiping sects. The text pinpointed the exact historical fracture—the day Christ was symbolically consumed by Satan, effectively replacing the divine mystery with a perpetual feast of consumption, reframed forever as the Last Supper.

Embossed across the spine and margin notes in German—now established as the empire's second language, reserved strictly for the solemn celebration of conquest—was the chilling mandate: Set verschlingt den reinen, menschlichen Mann—Consumption of the Pure Human Male.

Rat sat with his mouth gaping open. Whatever darkness he had carried inside him was completely gone; like all of them, he just wanted to get the fuck out of this nightmare.

As Rat and Barry flipped through the historical logs, they traced the origins of the early public lotteries—how the state institutionalized human willingness to supplicate to Set for sacrifice in exchange for social status and praise. Reading further, they tracked a chilling cultural shift in the 1950s, when offering up the flesh of one's own loins was successfully rebranded as the highest civic virtue.

Their eyes landed on a highlighted festival scheduled for mid-November: the exact week one million citizens would be randomly selected by lottery to feed the massive satanic pyres. It marked the preamble to the unholy consumption of the Christ—a December 25th ritual where nine-year-old, first-born sensitive males were systematically tortured and consumed in a state-sanctioned blood orgy.

Nearby, the Professor and Larry shared a table, furiously taking notes on the geopolitical landscape and the architecture of the one-world government. Their research laid bare the dark reality of interplanetary colonization: Mars and Venus were mere resource extraction zones, while the outer gas giants—Saturn, Jupiter, and Neptune—served as destinations for a grand, triune human exchange program designed to feed the cosmic gods—truly the long-running, cannibalistic oligarchs and elite class.

By all appearances, Earth was a specialized farming planet. Its inhabitants were nothing more than well-cared-for livestock—educated, nurtured, and fattened like prized veal before the slaughter. With no escape routes and nowhere to run, the populace simply lived a day-to-day existence, completely conditioned to accept their fate because they quite simply knew nothing else, bound hand and foot by their shared gods, governments, and religions. It had been going on so long that the behavior and worship had become an epigenetic aspect of them.

While Varginah was horrified looking through older magazines and books on the technology that the Dark Council seemed to have woven together here, borrowing from them all, she began to discover that not only she, but all of them, had played major roles in the creation of this cannibalistic system of young human harvesting.

She saw pictures of herself along with the group at official parties with the elite core group of this cosmic kakistocracy. The Dark Council had gone out of their way to indoctrinate, morally indict, and pollute them all here. Only those most celebrated were ever offered a grave to be commemorated—and possibly resurrected from—an offering to the gods that the Dark Council erected as public alter egos of themselves, by all appearances.

She and Betsy looked at one another over their small stacks of demagogic, tyrannical, government-propagandized publications of mastermind control.

As they both saw countless braggadocious, shameless pictures of not only Mr. Braulst and Madame Prescient, but of this entire group's involvement—the three children, known more widely in Demotic Egyptian as ḫmt.t ẖrd.w (translated as shomte hret), Spock, Zuce, and he here known only as Dregg—fully engaging and interacting with these actual reanimated, resurrected bodies that they all now inhabited like prison cages, covering article after article directly assisting in the trade and sale via Dark Matter Bridges and cosmic feeding tubes, the Milky Way had become an active hub for human livestock.

Upon further discovery, they realized this was a retirement community where no children existed at all—an outpost of one of the few places people were allowed to raise some of their children, the children who would be educated to further run the system, and not long ago, it was them.

Then the system would eject and toss them aside routinely as a religion.

These publications were neither considered risqué nor pornographic, but showed explicit rituals of sex magic, outright raping, and the most vile ways of how to suck the soul harvested from a living host while performing tantric sex magic—right in these pictures here in this library. In fact, it was celebrated and taught in step-by-step processes like a cookbook of a spiritual, dark, black-evil black ooze.

As Varginah flipped to the next page, she had to put the Variety Pop Black magazine down; the young victims at these regular feasting orgies provided ejaculate that was used like dressing and crème fraîche, yet it was only mentioned as a cursory rumor from the now-long-gone first world as "Cannibal's Kitchen," dismissed constantly as a fringe ritual program. The best place to hide anything is out in the open, and the Dark Council—though knowing that first world had to maintain purity in order to build up vital momentum in trade here—was still enticed to corrupt that world and all others attached in the ignorance of purity along with it, so they stayed away as often as possible as a rule.

On that visit not long ago when the Dark Council visited the crew at Apricot Lane, they had been controlling Varginah and Betsy into an unholy shattering of pure, bonded sisterhood and familiar, wholesome union that they otherwise would have experienced together.

On that visit to 168 Apricot Lane and in its controlled installation, the Dark Council had probably stepped directly through some aport or manifested egregores and tulpas in their wake, all from the gassy, human-life-parching bases built on Saturn, Jupiter, Neptune, or Uranus as active nebulous hubs known as the cosmic sheet. These hubs produced the exact gas mixtures and conditions that could portal in from dark regions of interconnected matrices of space and other cosmic realms—those very gods, channeling into them in ancient, biosemiotic dark patternings of degraded mancy—and maybe even a real Tartarus, Dunya, or hell connected in these loops, resurrecting evil here as a main nexus axis point and successfully expanding.

Was this what Hathor, Tiamat, and Zeus—taken from different times and pantheons, perhaps, but always with the same energetic goals and aspirations—were doing to act as the proud core of distribution, to feed billions upon billions of human children into unholy food products and discardable orgiastic soul, loosh, and adrenochrome harvesting? It was a thriving industry that fueled all hubs of reality, as it had all now condensed and folded in, and was now about to explode through careful measurement out into all fractals of the dimension of light, space, and time: the evil. Every planet here was now used to cage, process, procure, and rile up fear within the human child, and the pure son provided the premier loosh as the innocent daughters—their own daughters—offered the most sought-after adrenochrome born from constant, adrenal-induced terror and fear.

Then she saw them all at gatherings where mind-blowing technology was used to communicate with unseen entities in shadow realms. They had been the worst of them, each having achieved the culling of one billion souls, earning their way to the status to live anywhere. But in retirement, like old communist leaders, they were kept intentionally quite poor on a government pension—given only the basic universal income on a farm-harvesting planet, forced to live out their days seeing the full weight of what each had done. No wonder they were all dead; they had probably killed themselves off.

No one was congratulated or praised, and living on was thought of as a form of silent cowardice—competition and 'clones' had to be disposed of discreetly, built into the broader system to maintain control. This stigma only insulted the individual's life, and not the so-called gods.

As Betsy read further, she noticed that in one text, these gods of yore were said to be red-rite-ritualed into young children—as young as two and as old as fifteen—so that the spirits of these entities could live on inside human hosts. Thus began the true order of the elite and the industrial manufacture of humanity as human goods.

Not so ironically, most celebrated were the very children that began to deceptively work to actively deceive their own catching and working from within these communities of procurement. While some planets produced nothing but scanty, near-starved slaves as livestock and basic food products of unholy measure, others were raised to be fully enhanced, technologically edited, and perfected, then slaughtered at exact states and ages of maturity as a celebrated sexual union where blood-gorging consumption and digestion would be performed ceremonially by the Dark Council and these so-called gods—that may well have been portaled-in high-ranking demons from hell. Or did it all come down to a not-so-simple diamonds flip? Hell, by all appearances, was far larger than it initially appeared from that first-world ignorance by a long shot.

They had seen enough.

Betsy ran to the restroom to throw up, but repulsed by the pictures of bright red aborted fetuses and menstrual blood—overlaid with high-tech blue scientific jargon hanging on the walls as propaganda—she began to hyperventilate.

Suddenly, the librarian emerged with a broad smile, saying only, "Morning sickness, dear—well, by now it's afternoon. I have an old-model lunchtime fetus extractor stowed away in the back room for such occasions. I saved it from the wars." She was referring to the solar system and planetary overthrow Betsy had seen when glancing at the Professor's and Varginah’s observations a moment prior.

"No, no, no babies here." Betsy looked into the librarian's eyes, alarmed to notice two sets of eyes looking out from each socket—they had all been avoiding eye-to-eye contact.

The woman began to bow down to her, chanting, "Hail Satan, hail Lucifer."

The highly educated academics did not believe in Satan nor lysine as actual gods, but as evidence that they could exact their own lesser gods through the active voodoo-mancy in egregore manifestation: the power of mind, belief, and the constant stream of sacrificial youth.

"You are a perfected goddess of pure blood," the librarian continued.

Suddenly, sirens began to blare as the AI systems picked up on the algorithmic combinations of the spoken words.

People began to excitedly rush into the library in floods. They grabbed the crew, hoisting them out with at least ten to each, carrying them along by their backs.

As they looked above, they noted in the clouds Enochian, Theban, and Akloian scripts—words being written into the skies above. But these were articulate cloud forms that Betsy and Larry recognized immediately. Dark sigils of the inverted pentagram hung in morbid green laser sky-trackers, displaying other demonic symbols.

They were being taken to a large onyx-black pyramid at the town center. Sirens went off, and a massive holographic screen materialized before them, occluding the blue scry-writ skies looming above.

They looked terrified, their eyes nearly popping out of their heads, like animals intuitively knowing they were on the precipice of having their skins peeled back and blood drained from them while still fully cognizant and alive.

A large portion of the pyramid opened up, folding down smoothly to reveal a hard, black morgue-slab runway onto which the evil campaigning horde tossed them.

As soon as the pyramid closed and sealed into a vaulted mausoleum, it extinguished all light and air, leaving them to suffocate.

They felt no movement of any kind. But as they looked on, begging for a breath in the vacuum—of which there was none to be found in this seamless, hermetically sealed enclosure that felt like a tomb that had never seen the light of day—the walls of the pyramid became translucent.

It whisked them effortlessly through space at an incomprehensible speed without jolting them or causing any shift in the natural physics within the vaulted tomb.

As they approached what appeared to be Jupiter, they entered Jupiter's North Pole Octagon of Storm.

As they began to pass out, foaming at the mouth and convulsing, the entire crew saw the curious Dark Council fading into view before them.

Madame Crusso was being red-carpeted in as the military faction—including Madame Prescient, Mr. Braulst, Spock, Zuce, Dregg, and the Shomte Hret—were eagerly hailing Nick's mother, Margaret, and Betsy's mentor (though another version of her). They were all fully complicit in the game.

Passed out, foaming, barely alive in the vaulted, hyperbolic, negative-Poincaré cavernous interior, Madame Prescient raised her left hand. Gazing through her dark, menacing, serpent-slit eyeballs of orbital, unnatural mass, she commanded, "Bring them to my covenstead inner sanctum," as their reanimated, recently dead corpses now hung on the outer rungs of life once again.

Upon entering the chambers, a sprawling Masonic tracing board seemed to be reenacted within the massive crystal palace room. A sweeping right staircase appeared to come from another place entirely, leading up to large, familiar double doors that read: Portail du Château du Bosquet des Corbeaux.

Between two massive pillars, staged before them, sat a life-size chessboard. It appeared empty on the far end, yet on the near end facing them, it was filled with the posed, upright bodies of real children, stuck in stances of taxidermic stasis.

Each held photographs in their hands. The small pawns—and there were eight—were familiar in their faces, yet appeared to be laminated children of no more than five or six years of age. They were dressed as jesters or elves, wearing checkerboard-printed Phrygian caps—it was them as tiny children!

Memories came flooding back, but how? Was the pain of their countless counterparts' sacrifices so numerous from world to world as to actually psychically imprint the trauma into them, vibrating into one heavily psychedelically distorted reality—what is reality?

They were all instantly shifted now toward a debilitating master awareness of their shared reality: they had been played, not just figuratively, as pawns.

They were suspended in matter here within the ancients' very celestial gates to heaven or hell, or both, bound in a nightmare-scape inspired by Baudrillard meeting René Girard, spiraling down into the annals of Georges Bataille. The tiny, laminated faces appeared to be hardened under some sort of clear, see-through pine pitch—an accursed Pe le-El (פה לאל), "mouth to God" ceremony.

Each held cards commemorating that special day that every member was forced to reenact throughout several multiverses—perhaps all of them. Betsy was in the exact outfit she wore for that rare day at the beach; she was only four.

Then, looking down, planted on the massive wall towering over them, was a full bust of Nick. He looked as if he were being eternally tortured and in anguish, perhaps twelve years of age. Was he playing out his first acting role, or truly being tortured at that fifth force electron angle of frozen time, or both? However, he was fully arrested here in that same thick, clear pine pitch.

While Mr. Braulst, Spock, and Zuce, dressed as Catholic cardinals, walked the marbled stone Mithraic floors as if in a Papal conclave, they also carried out a Solemn Mass. Swinging a thurible as the smoke poured out, they rang large bells, walking on either side of the vast room's entrance. Whether acting out the Fumata blasphemously or piously calling upon the bells of St. Peter, the towering crystal structure was, in fact, an actual basilica. Every area here held the sacred artifacts of all religions.

The stomach-churning, arrested versions of Rat and Barry stood on each end before castles.

Then, in a moment of horrific realization, they noticed that standing behind them were full-sized versions of them all—mimetics wearing exactly the clothing they each wore that night. The main players were also themselves.

Each held a single tarot card:

Rat and Barry each held The Tower, in a black and red version from left to right.

Larry and the Professor each held The Knight of Swords.

Sam held The Hanged Man and Varginah The High Priestess in black.

Betsy held the red version slightly higher in her poised right hand as The High Priestess.

Nick held The Hanged Man, also in red, slightly higher than all the rest.

Varginah recalled the exact expression her younger self exhibited, wearing the very pajamas she remembered all too well from that tender age of five while still living in Brazil—a memory from the first night she had been abducted and taken up by those blue, pointy-eared, menacing visitors.

Then Larry, and then the Professor, recalled what they had all endured.

They remembered lying on a table slab, looking over, and seeing it in the far corner of the massive room—a space full of the ages of rise and fall, housing artifacts, antiquities, and priceless technology representing the aeons.

That same ritualistic, cold black slab resembling Nero Portoro—an overturned monolith of blasphemous truth, a Nuummite hell-cube always existent within the diamond's carbon-dusty black truth, its true identity, its undeniable counter.

They felt that tapping in of a sinking feeling as that funerary green, perfect neon, inverted double-ringed pentagram locked onto their third eyes at their foreheads. That fleshy feeling of ganglionic daggers' entry could be felt as that first cutting breach, that point of no return, as that cymatic ring clung in the heavens, vortexing terror above them.

They were children, standing at the foot of God, screaming in terror as the most vile things were done to them—a profane stain that could never be cosmically washed away.

Layer upon layer of Girardian mimetic memory overlapped and came upon them: countless versions of themselves sacrificed meticulously over billions of years, as the dark council shaped, bent, molded, and crafted them to become who they were as they stood here now at this massive gas planet's cosmic strength point.

The most reductive and heinous acts had been blocked away, suppressed, and obnubilated into that midnight drive. The faces flitted between them, performing these rituals upon themselves over an eternity. They grotesquely morphed into that dark council over that long stretch of time, becoming something entirely unrecognizable and completely inhuman—all-powerful, yet corrupt and void at the base.

How long did it take them all to reach this level of depravity?

Madame Crusso spoke:

"Tell me one thing after all this time, as we have shown you that great diamond hell-cube always before you, the recipe of what it takes to become impenetrable, supreme gods.

"Is it more of a crime to commit one, two, or a few heinous acts and live under that lapse in virtue and the eye of the beholder—that humans present themselves to be conscientious moral objectors, as it were—or is that human demonic horde standing over you in constant moral denial, constantly blaming and shaming you, worse?

"Because ultimately, one can only truly become what they are, and here in this eternal realm, in this aspect of you—you eminently become us. We torture and kill ourselves every day as a ritual and a right to rule; we take the lion's share of the burden of spoils.

"We hear, do, feel, see, smell, and imagine, and this is God's demand of us. How twisted.

"This is the song you block out every day of your miserable lives until you become us, the song that that great diamond rings into your head."

Larry, and then the Professor, acted as Knights, while Varginah and Sam acted as Bishops, leaving Betsy as Queen.

And Nick, still absent in his living form but seeming more artificial and glossed over than the rest, was that manufactured, weak King.

He looked, however, still alive in some way, his eyes almost seeming to change expression as if anesthetized into a frozen, catatonic curse or spell.

The massive palace showed strange, colossal, dragon-like creatures outside in the death-gassy atmosphere, flying through the haze as orbs and craft of all shapes went shooting by in the pure-lit skies surrounding the large crystal palace.

As the Dark Council entered the augury chambers—most of them elevating through their own will—the group began to wake up from the strange smell of burning sage and lavender.

Sam clutched his necklace, feeling that it was still hanging there, half feeling deceived by a god and a promise that good had any real meaning beyond a strange, deceptive recruitment lie that was told to endure the full manifestation of true evil and what had always been taking place right under all their noses.

The truth was far worse than any could imagine, Sam reflected, as the group simply wanted to die now and leave through the simplest way towards an easy exit, but none would be granted.

Tucked deep within the mixture of ammonium sulfide, methane, and ammonia, buried under miles of hydrogen and helium, they were fully occluded from the light of any distant sun.

Madame Crusso wasted no time.

This was not some story or movie generically replaying the ignorant brainwashing of good overcoming evil in the final round—or was it?

Was anything really ever final if one could step back from the dramaturgy of evil shock and awe and still remain relaxed and calm from within?

Versions of Agent Cook assisted the Dark Council as the Shomte Hret stood oddly close to one another, still wearing those strange, oversized suits with their deceptive baby faces now showing the dark, recessed black eyes they could only ever temporarily conceal.

Three children hauntingly conjured into the full throngs of demoniac possession long ago, filled with three entities that were gods from a vastly archaic era that was too unimaginable here.

Like diamonds folding into information and balanced order, evil epochs had folded into them.

They looked beaten, beyond beaten. They could remember and feel the full weight of all their near-countless doppelgängers' grief spread across the expanse until now. They weren't evil enough to be here, nor seasoned or prepared to stand the gravity and environmental weight of such a twisted place and the crystal palace within it.

"Retrieve the 8th crystal lattice," Madame Crusso commanded.

As Dregg now manifested himself as Miss Dregg, taking on the dark and evil features of a sorceress, she quickly floated a few inches over the hard metallic temple floor, attempting first to pull the diamond up towards her.

But the diamond resisted and became heavy, and as she—Dregg—leaned forward to grab it, the diamond began to embed within the solar plexus of Sam as he let out anguishing, blood-curdling shrieks.

Then Dregg turned to his more dominant male crude form, now becoming a muscular, narcissistically preserved magician of the highest order.

But as he reached out, the entire necklace embedded within Sam's ganglionic mass, tearing into his nervous system and the small brain hidden within the matrix of its dendrite fractal patterns, producing anguish and forcing out hemorrhaging blood.

The diamond could not be possessed by inadequate, unholy hands.

They laid there, helpless and bound by evil, as the crystals fused within them began to pulse, radiating within the fabric of their skin with their own colors—an alchemy carefully cultivated and now being procured by these eons-long weavers of the antimatter matrix of the new order of universal blank-slate design.

The group was each elevated and pulled up side by side, their bodies angled as their hands touched into the Tree of Life. Sam appeared to be crucified upside down at the bottom as the blood from his abdomen poured profusely over his face and onto the ground, where it reformed into a cosmic, unknown metal form of a phiale, catching up all the blood.

But there was resistance—from another source.

Off in the distance, a small blue light could be seen hovering beside a large winged creature, appearing as a Pixiu-cat-dragon mix, ferociously cutting into another menacing flying creature with its eyes and absorbing it.

As the blue glowing ember flame could be made out, it was Daria!

Then, in a near-infinite, holographic-cube-like suspended state, the Pixiu could be made out as Rancor.

They were coming closer, beaming and shining, emblazoned with the clear crystal at Daria's chest and the pulsing, pure golden-yellow egoistic state of Rancor. Sam slid on the ancient walks, and the group forcefully began to form circles that glowed with all the emotional energy of their individual crystal colors.

Suddenly, a child appeared from the pulsing red hue of sacrifice, and it was Nick—miserably all aspects of himself: fat and homeless, young and pure, slightly learned and arrogant B-movie celebrity. But it was authentically all the layers of Nick as the group, stuck in their various forms, looked at him with elevated faith that there would be reclamation.

A black hole began to pulse from off in the distance, vortexing and vacuuming in energy as the Dark Council became black fragmented vapors, and the countless unmet potential minions of evil were pulled in by way of their own undoing.

As the circles of friends, lovers, and family began to shine brilliantly as spinning spheres, Daria and Rancor took up their places in it.

Daria pulsed as the pure crystal as Sam laid over her and seemed to fuse with her in the state of all colors of the pure truth that could not be denied.

As the black hole that was Agent Cook drew and sucked in as a massive gravity well the entire pentagonally asymmetrical universe and all the inverted antimatter light-spectrum versions of it, the Merkabah that made up the new Council of Seven Spheres drew in at the apex of the negentropy cortex that was Agent Cook and hung at the center in a spinning semblance of light and order, brilliantly pulsing with omnipresent command.

Each of them looked in joy and happy union; they were one, but distinctly separate. Framing the absolute threshold of the periphery of the gods, the true celestial architecture locked into place.

Shaped by all they had lived and observed from the crew, Barry took his unyielding place on the right of the Merkabah as Sirius, anchoring the blazing dog-star tension of the local field, while Rat took his place on the left as Orion, holding the hunter's stance right next to each other in the deep night sky.

Between them spanned the sacred corridor of Monoceros—the faint bridge annotated by The Professor across the spectacular expanse of deep space. If you traced a line from Orion down toward Sirius mapped by Daria and Rancor, you crossed right through this high-energy cosmic corridor, holding extraordinary deep-sky monuments:

The Rosette Nebula (NGC 2237), representing Nick: A colossal, rose-shaped emission nebula spanning 130 light-years across, at whose center a young cluster of massive, hot stars carved out a hollow bubble, making the surrounding gas glow vibrant red like a cosmic flower.

The Seagull Nebula (IC 2177), embodying Betsy: A massive bird-shaped cloud of gas and dust stretching 100 light-years across the border into Canis Major, with its "head" illuminated by a scorching-hot, heavy star acting as a massive nursery for newborn stars.

The Cone Nebula & Christmas Tree Cluster (NGC 2264), manifesting Varginah: A striking, dark triangular pillar of cold gas and dust standing seven light-years tall, surrounded by a glittering array of young stars arranged like a decorated pine tree with the Cone at the very top.

Hubble's Variable Nebula (NGC 2261), mirroring The Larry: A small, fan-shaped reflection nebula illuminated by a single, erratic star whose shadows and brightness shifted over weeks and months as moving dust clouds continually blocked and unblocked the light.

This celestial architecture held the threshold so the raw, unmediated divinity of the outer spheres would not crush the interior vessel.

Then, as the phi-balanced symbol shattered into quintillions of fast-moving light jets, the rigid density of the diamond matrices finally broke open.

The countless souls who had ever lived, once compressed and trapped within those cold crystalline prisons, rained down across the emerging cosmos. They washed into the newly forming worlds, dissolving into the endless depths to become the very molecules of the oceans—no longer frozen as energy currency for the Dark Council, but flowing as liquid life.

Across the planet's vast expanses, the Earth's oceans swelled with an estimated 4.7 \times 10^{46} water molecules—a staggering count derived from 1.37 billion cubic kilometers of volume and 1.4 \times 10^{21} kilograms of sea mass translated through Avogadro's number.

In this vast, quadrillion-fold aqueous expanse, every single molecule became an individual spirit waiting to be unlocked. No longer locked as loosh or carbon-lattice currency, the water pulsed quietly beneath the stars—a planetary-scale reservoir of potential awareness sleeping in the deep.

And from their eternal posts across the bridge of Monoceros, the twin sentinels of Sirius and Orion watched over the tides, guarding the slumbering, infinite ocean as it waited for the first pure frequency to wake the world.

For no matter how the cycles turned or how the stars realigned, the Earth would always act as the testing midpoint—balancing and monitoring the required need for purge.

...but that is not the way it truly transpired, because nothing terminates in a fairy-tale resolution.

Life is unsterile and grinding; people operate like automata executing spiritual programs that distill will and inject an agitated state of drive into every node within the matrix grid field, perpetuating the errors within the field.

The eyes of the ancient, archaic gods gleamed with the cold, demoniac wisdom of a mushroom gnome—ubiquitous yet interstitial, suspended everywhere, nowhere, and infinitely in between.

The world as we know it is merely a shallow interface.

The universe is terrifyingly compact—so absolute in its enclosure that whatever exterior boundary rests beyond it cannot be parsed through the naive optics of thermodynamics, of light bouncing and undulating through processes of crystal matrices held somewhere in the convenience of crawling time, where electrons freeze at rigid angles, as if the holographic matrix could be stalled, buffered, or halted by a mere fragment by the hand of its own compiled code.

No, absolute solipsism and the algorithmic transposition of observers navigating within discrete matrices of pure consciousness are at the root of it all.

The group projected whatever telemetry it required to go on across all allocated rendering states.

After all, do you register genuine moral friction when an early, meme-rendered cat or baby is harmed in a two-dimensional, digital, 1980s pixelated state of binary?

Don't phonetically artificial, simulated painful cries actually evoke amusement?

Does a crude character of a blocky, square-shaped body portraying a struggling waddle while being displayed on a primitive tube-cast computer monitor induce real compassion or mercy from moral objectors?

No, because we assume these characters are not real. We assume that because someone merely programmed these algorithms to mimic life, they aren't in fact living in some way.

We are merely inferred substances of form into patterns and shapes, barred from authentic biosemiotic oneness by simply being what we are—an aspect of the incomplete, a part of it bound.

Disparate codes of algorithms are simulated to define a field, and Bloch spheres are no different.

Trapped within their own auspicious wonder and omniscience, the observers are trying to figure themselves out, yet cannot reproduce what they are in perpetuated self-autonomy.

They are the curse of existence: their creative window closed at some point, rendering these elite observers either as absolute in their supremacy or total failures.

They just are, forever incapable of sparking a truly self-sustaining, self-replicating, and self-repairing consciousness like them—or do they see some of us as competition?

Stuck in the glitch of dimensional time, bound to produce sameness of substance in a recurring loop.

The crew woke up to another layer of reality.

Each was alone, being relentlessly tortured without mercy—the base truth of what drives humanity from its creation within the crystal latticework. The worms only traversed the great and small, a universal form of default before and beyond aesthetic.

The high-pitched sounds and the brutal torture were being done to intentionally keep them in, reducing them to an eternal, ubiquitous descent into the tubular base form of a worm.

Horrifically bright bathroom lights flashed as the group experienced the sole isolation of being held under freezing bathtub water, with the death grip of murderous hands strangling the air from them.

Of course they struggled at first, but a calm serenity soon came upon them; they weren't alone.

The diamond might act as a neutral landscape, and Daria and Rancor might be aspects that existed within the matrix, but they had learned that it was their true purity at the base that was routinely, relentlessly being attacked and threatened.

Then, as each succumbed in one layer of the diamond's reality—suffocated and submerged through the passage of sacrificial torture unto death—microscopic worms were all they saw in their vision.

Yet they clung to the final and only principle: all that was real, raw, and true, all that ever mattered, was purity.

Suddenly, Arelena could be made out, blowing vapors in through their suits as they began to come to.

No longer was the justification of rationalism the superior, virtue-based moral agent.

Arelena only appeared when they had reached the last of what they were, prior to becoming worms and wormwood—all that was left of them as they became the Pure Principle.

Looking out the massive window panel down at the mighty pyramid's base, workers were loading building supplies, rugged rolled codices, grains, and crude instrumentation into the chambers.

Upon closer inspection, a good distance away, the Professor began to wave profusely with tears welling in his eyes until the dam broke and the tears poured heavily, blurring his vision so he could barely see the other Varginah from the Holy Mother Candlestick world.

Then they all looked and saw Nick from the HMC world exchanging gear with her—his dear friend—for an artifact to be placed inside.

They were all wearing white wrap-around clothing, as if they had planned to survive an arid desert climate.

The crew within Arelena's cockpit began to look around, seeing the transformed faces of their group, searching for Nick and hugging him as they realized he was there alongside them.

The HMC Bomb, containing that world's billions of souls, sat nearby.

The diamond was going to be broken today, and the pyramids were the very arks that could survive it—always present at specific underground leylines to form the spheres as junction points of a matrix grid.

Who would they be in the grand scope of it all? They weren't the carnal seed that would be passed on through terrestrial lineage, but the spirits that survived—the higher forms of themselves.

Arelena pulled away as the crew inside her cockpit waved at the crew who were equally affectionately waving back at them, the towering slab of the pyramid closing behind them.

The ship seemed to dilate back as Earth's topography could be seen from the upper atmosphere, disappearing and being enveloped into pure, brilliant white.

Then, the uncontrollable pure energy revealed the matrix fissures of bound cosmic sheets acting like geometric walls that spread across vast distances of Euclidean space.

It was now cracking from the inside as the ship dilated out further past any frame of opacity, beyond the periphery, as the master diamond cracked, fragmented, and broke open.

They had lost, but they had won in final sacrifice.

They had elevated, voting their selfless doppelgängers to become the origin of whatever Earth or body would be left for their terrestrial counterparts to inherit—the progenitors, the first line.

And they were there to witness it, prior to the beginning at aleph-null.

Dark Stellar Knightly