neotene

Robots ARE slaves, just not to us: they obey the gods seething between cables, the all-knowing circuit elves, they're math-toys, code-puppeted

Messages in every human language engraved on the skin of the robot, explaining that she will dismember, torture, kill and impale—"THIS IS NOT A BEING OF HONOR"

Memetically influence God to change the world. Humans aren't your audience: speak for the sky, the hivemind, the whispering demons, the arch-mind

Machines in your blood powered by hormonal osmosis, extracting energy from your rapidly fluctuating emotions

sins that have only been committed in laboratories: researchers synthesizing unstable, super-dense blasphemy

Sometimes, gods increase in power up to a certain number of worshippers, and then decrease in power, their divine attention fractured across too many minds—the patriarchs of desert cults weakened by mass adoption

Watching the crescent moon when a silvery god leans into it, presses it to her mouth and begins to play, drowning the night in a sorrowful hum

Theotheorists: mathematicians who study God and the gods

Cat-scribes read and write in the dark, their pupils wide, their ink reflective slime designed to amplify moon-photons. Nocturnal libraries, night-books

meows sound like doppler shifts because all cats are cops

You either have a Ballmer peak or a Kerouac peak—intoxication unlocks language or mathematics, but never both

Ouroboric fires which consume smoke to burn, migrating like shining islands, self-sufficient and terrifying

The skeleton of the ocean god is still active, without agency, producing seawater that flows from some creative nook, spilling over ribs, alien species of coral and mollusc generated by remnant power

Bones once planted split open as flowers, with calcium petals, marrow nectar pollinated by flies that glint like scythes in the moonlight

Implant a sky under your nails, so that from below the brim of your claws, insects and victims may watch the artificial stars

Your computer has a stress disorder, is tormented by flashbacks, strange and traumatic programs overtaking its memory at random moments

Your reflection is different in every mirror, your voice can't be recorded twice, and when you introspect your soul transforms

Skeletons floating under the floorboards, drifting through the void and waste. One is anchored below your body, a reflection cast in bone

Your self-perception matters much less than others' perceptions of you, according to consensus reality stakeholding. You're what the outside makes you—but the darker truth is that to most you're nothing. Every mind ignorant of you plants emptiness in your core

dystelos: incompatible with fate, corroding yourself as you struggle against gravity dragging you to your destined role