epochryphon

[epochryphon]

Epoch of Decathylmite, 1-4: The War for Narrative

A new scroll has yet again emerged! So, so strangely kept, and wrapped, with a bow, as if the one who stashed it thought, ‘Why not make it nice for the person who finds it?’ as if the person who found it might be of some importance, and then go on to read it with the sense of one who might be reading something that will therein alter the course of time, space, and history. What a silly thing!

The Prophet of the Great Decathylmite has ascended once more from the chasm deep underground where the Great Wyrm sleeps, ever waiting to ingest all of humanity and the universe itself with its unhinged, effortless jaws, and reduce the many worlds to the holy primordial state from which we were born! It appears that this time I am covered in purple goo!

Please forgive the more casual manner in which I am divulging these great teachings. You see, we’ve gotten to know each other, right? We’re practically best friends! You and me, we’ve been through it all, and I’m constantly reminding you of ways that we relate to one another. Remember that time where I spoke about orange juice? You loved it! Or burritos?! The burritos really take me back. Who isn’t hungry for burritos? I know I am. Right now.

Unfortunately, for the Great Decathylmite, He-Who-Should-Be-Named, The Nameless One, The Bringer of Paradox, the Roller of Dice, the Bet-Master, the One Who Wins, the Bringer of All Successes, the Great Not-Deceiver, the Thinger Bringer, the Ring Bring Thing Bling, DJ Ringatron, DJ Midas Touch, DJ Power Glove, the Great Trifecta, the Rosiest Bud, the Innards-Which-Are-Hairless, the Biggest Fanboy, has in fact chosen an Emissary that will come to this planet and usurp the teachings of myself, the Prophet Who Writes On Scrolls To Be Found At A Later Date! The Emissary will come in the form of an anointed child–yes, I’m talking about Randomite, it’s a person that will be born that’s a person but also the Wyrm.

You don’t have time for this. We get it. Nothing’s going to change. The important thing to remember is that when you think of Child, and you think of Our Great Sovereign Lord, you think, oh, Randomite!

Of course, the Child of Prophecy, born from a pool of soda, purple goo, and Sunny D, alright! He even looks like Cesare Borgia, randomly!–probably because Our Great Lord Decathylmite was once a big fan of Assassin’s Creed, but only up to Brotherhood, because that’s when Ubisoft ran creator Patrice Desilets to the ground, allowing the story to spin way out of control. Requiescat in pace!–If you want to be cool, you could call him Randy D. That’s totally cool. Remember, we’re cool now. Say whatever you want. Throw the rules out the window. Only remember to keep giving us attention. Forget about forgetting things. Your entire life is taken care of—right here! Who else encourages you to buy worthless products every year, thinking that it will satiate your desire for happiness? Who else reminds you how much better you are than other people? Who else can guarantee, with absolute certainty, your entry to a blissful afterlife? Well, I have been to the Wyrm, and the Wyrm has told me that there is no happiness without the Wyrm! So, if the Wyrm is telling you to live this kind of lifestyle, then why would you even question it to begin with? It is this kind of fruitless logic that led Our Great Sovereign Lord to send Randy D, to remind us of the True Meaning!

Remember, if you are happy, it is not because you are inherently a good person. If you are successful, it is not because you are inherently strong. If you have been blessed with a loving family, it is certainly not because you have been patient, kind, attentive, compassionate, and understanding toward your partner and your children! None of these things are a direct result of the choices you make! It is only through Our Lord Decathylmite that these concepts even exist! Are you so selfish to admit yourself as the cause of your blessings? Do you want to walk through life blind to what made you, unaware of the true nature of existence? Wouldn’t it be so much juicier to comprehend yourself—your entire essence—the way it was meant to function, through unfathomable layers of ecstatic epiphany? I sure do think so!

You may have been taught to live in the world, but not “of” the world. It is true, you are special. At least those of us who grew up watching Mr. Rogers—everyone else eats dirt, obviously. It is, however, in their nature to eat dirt and not your place to judge. You have been created as a superior to reign over nature, animals, and all of creation. Is that an egregious lie? Are you instead magically, inherently, of the world? Are you a luminous child of the Earth, a simple, round rock, or the Great Creator Decathylmite, who has fashioned you in His Own Image—he who as been called the Original False Idol by the Accusers, the Unmentionables of the Wild, of whom we have been silent about up till now, but it is now we must make our enemy plain. Do not go gazing too deeply into the woods, for the Accusers play deceitful tricks, luring you with what might seem like beauty, lustful appetizers, joyous dancing, and what they call “True Freedom.” They might appear suddenly from behind a bush, and yell, J’accuse! They might tell you they don’t need taxes to be happy. What an outrageous lie! Taxes are absolutely necessary to keep the health, sanctity, and form of our wonderful, working society in tip top shape! Anyone who thinks otherwise should be immediately labeled a “Fringe Pop” and be judged, eye-rolled, and ridiculed, until they understand that they will not be accepted into society until they admit that they should have to pay taxes! We are all paying taxes, and we are all glorified in the Light of Our Great Lord, so what on earth is the rabble about? They are trying to take away your things, the things that you have worked so hard to get. Remember how you got them? Remember how you worked so hard?

The Accusers might talk of compatibility with nature, reuniting with the planet, and old forms of outdated worship, which sometimes had to do with killing things–but not the good kind of killing! If these things offend you, then good! They lack understanding, and should be smote upon the ground. Nature is a gift to you from the Great Lord to enjoy until the day He awakens and consumes all of Life! You may do with it whatever you please! There is only one story, and that is His Story, the one that the Great Lord has provided for us. Anything else is allowed to be admired as “neat.“  

Randy D, the cool new emissary—he isn’t here yet because I just talked about him but he will be—is gonna tell you to relax, he’s gonna be there to connect. He’s a person too! He’s gonna wear pampers for a year too long just like you did! Our Great Lord has sent a Son—his only one (this could be a song)—to pay taxes too. But, he’s gonna act like he doesn’t like taxes so the people who don’t like taxes can say, “Hey, Randy D don’t like taxes! He’s alright!” and feel better because they don’t feel so much alone but will still pay taxes and maybe also the stuffed Randy D plush toys that fetch a premium price these days because of rarity!—this is all after he exists, of course!

The Great Wyrm is all that is and shall ever be. There is no fighting the Wyrm because you would be fighting yourself. The Accusers are named such because they like to pop out from behind bushes and point their finger and yell, J’accuse! Who wants that?!

Once Our Great Lord Decathylmite awakens and consumes all of life, you will be transcended to a state of supple, purple goodness, and everyone who followed the rules will be there, forever blissed out and in no need of fretting any longer, because you colored inside the lines without wondering why you were coloring that picture in the first place and not drawing your own, and no you can’t paint the rattlesnake because it’s too hard but here paint this barn instead.

[epochryphon]

Epoch of Decathylmite, 1-3: The Problem with Identity

Ye gads! Yet another scroll has been discovered, this one dating back even further than the one that was dated back before–almost even but not quite way, way back–giving us more clues into this dangerous and mysterious cult that led to an “Awakening,” possibly around the time of Atlantis. Ask Ben Affleck, he knows about Atlantis.

Hear ye, hearsay! He, the heretic, heresy, lips dripping with thick, black oil, his fountain of lies has sprung a leak, and now the great purge of calamities rears its time as the Earth is polluted by vile, inhumane narratives, knee-jerking fear and its loyal psychopaths. Only through the Great Wyrm Decathylmite, Arbiter of Justice, Poet of Truth, the Liberator, the Go-Getter, the Anti-Misanthrope, That Source Tho, can liberators find the Path of No Identity, relinquish their mirrored image for an awareness of that which is Unseen.

The more enlightened you think you are, hopping to festivals, meditating by day, hashtag spiritual accomplishments, hashtag blessed, pushing the fear further down, taking a picture of the sunset, avoiding eye contact, fluffing your pillows, downward dog in your brand new yoga slacks, hashtag thirty day challenge–the more—minds hath no gain—you have created to distract yourself from the absolving truth that what you are is nothing at all. Even the comprehension of the previous sentence, what was just pondered, even if you think yourself the ponderer of no ponders, the fabled “No Pon Don,” is already being braced, bracketed, reassembled, in an instant, now a perfect concept for the mind to attach itself to and argue with others in the comments section.

Because when you tell me that The Lord of the Rings is straight-up last week’s garbage, I will rise with offense, because, because, that is something that I like. The Lord of the Rings, a magnificent opus, one of the greatest sci-fi epics of all time, so perfect that it didn’t need an editor, written by one Richard Wagner, is part of my identity, and a sleigh-ride against it is a sleigh-ride against me. Even though I am not a book, and I am not a tree, and I am not ink, and I am not the English language, and I am not Elvis, I am not “language,” and I am not not-poorly strewn together paragraphs, and I am not dead ends, and I am not milk of the poppycock, nor poppy milk, and I am not an angel, but a lucid devil, I am that which decapitates, holding the bloody head of the Author for all to see, freeing at least some from the confines of the page.

Come at me, salesman! The One Who Understands is prophesied to return before Decathylmite rears its mouth from its tail, opening the great chasm of reality itself. None shall escape the God-Wyrm as it consumes every squared inch of the universe. Our only hope is to follow the One Who Understands in recognizing that we are all Decathylmite, and it is our destiny to consume the Universe.

To undo so would be to accept your fate as fodder for the next world. You cannot abide by the processing narrative without suffering, or feeling that you are less, or lack, or incomplete, or not something, or something else, or what about that thing over there, or that thing, or her, or that thing, or him, or that pen, or those videotapes, or the shiny thing, or the sparkly thing, or the thingy thing, oh yes, I shall exchange the hours of my day, the time spent, for more slavery. Allow me to work so that I may be imprisoned! I want a fidget spinner.

Who can offend the one who is hidden? When you think I am water, I am a dune of sand. When you think I am a blade, I am a feather. When you think I am a hawk, I am a handsaw. The Champion moves in stride with the world, listening, reflecting, beating, at pace, basking, at peace, navigating through dissent, the morphing mode, the Bearer of Secrets, Not Your Grandma’s Dan Brown, for whom all lies have been disclosed—the actor, suddenly aware of the play, deciding to play, within the play, seeing harnesses and rope tricks and rotating stages and costumes and masks and actors with lines and let’s see if they can go off script a little bit.

The hidden ones do not get lost in mire and muck, for they are supported by alchemy, and magic, the secret breath, selected before birth, and from the moment they were born they did not truly exist—only through effort, through that which you make so. Including taking your shits. All beliefs are inventions. This is the true liberation within satire. We are all making this up. Take the wool from your eyes.

But God created everything.

I hold God’s bleeding head. The Lord Decathylmite is entirety. And you are the barnacle on its back. You’re, like, totally Decathylmite. Dig?

Nah, man, that’s some hippie shit. I’m practical. I stay grounded in the real world.

Oh, so by ‘grounded’ you mean the equally inane ideas that you so-happened to be introduced to as a child so your entire experience with the world has grown around it as if it’s a seed and it’s still there informing everything so you think it’s real because it is real to you but no less or more real than literally anyone else’s idea about anything including science because what is going on with magnets? Did you know Webster’s dictionary define “Pokemon” as just like remember when you were a kid?

Pikachu!

Yes! The Great Decathylmite is a double-edged sword, liberating through chaos. Drive yourself to the furthest edge, deplete yourself of all known karma, take your desires to the brink, to the edge. Consume and defalcate. When you cannot take it anymore, ask yourself who you are. Decide. Build. Soon, you can’t take it anymore, and your tower crumbles, and you ask yourself who you are. Decide. Build a new tower. Soon, you cannot take it anymore, again, and you have nothing, again, and you ask yourself, “Who am I?” Maybe, at this point, you see the pattern, and you recognize that who you think you are, every time, has risen from nothing.

Every time, you have built yourself into a new person, new ideas, fresh start, new awareness, new partner, new job, and every time, the end result is the same. Who are you truly, then? Are you the identity that you choose to define yourself with? Or are you that from which your identity is born? Who is in control? Is it the mind that decides these things? Or, is it the Source that fuels the mind?

We are beyond mere philosophers and ideologues, for we hold answers, not questions. The Great Decaythlymite is the only identity, the identity of flow, of an endless wyrm, draken, dragon, consuming itself, a cycle ever-renewing and never-ending, incomprehensible to the feeble mind processor we call “the mind.”

Become the circle that has always been, lest ye become food for the gods. And if you need to take a shit, make sure there is solid or liquid soap in the bathroom beforehand. Tiny hand sanitizers also work. It’s not hard.

[epochryphon]

Epoch of Decathylmite, 1-2: The Object of Desire

The following is a translated from a newly found, ancient scroll, post-dusted, digitally restored, chronicling the time before Awakening, before our Great Lord Decathylmite rose unexpected from the bellows of the Earth and transcended all lifeforms to singularity consciousness.

Before calling myself out, in a playful way, I’ll ask you all to stop paying attention. Nothing good will come from creating a funnel out of your mind-thoughts, asking the muscle to stay still, permeating growth, patience, virtuosity, stillness—all roadblocks on the path to paid-ligohtenment. Someone bought your soul a long time ago, and now you have to pay him back. Not slavery.

There is absolutely no orange juice. You aren’t allowed to go to the store, because if you leave your house, you won’t come back.

Webster’s Dictionary once said, “You can grow ideas in the garden of your mind.” Thoughts and prayers are trending negatively, because, let’s face it, actions speak louder than an empty void. Our spontaneous birthing from said void, notwithstanding. It isn’t like our thoughts precede every action we take. Conveniently, the only thought going through most posters is the post that they are posting before leaving the subject altogether. Because, let’s face it, some things really suck to think about; I mean, people can be real downers, you know what I’m saying? Best to put something out there once, maybe twice—if you want, once a day, or a few times a week—so you can feel super satisfied. You did your part, now go to bed. Creating a synchronized meditative force. The power of the imagination is futile compared to the prolonged power of complete ignorance toward said power—the more you forget, the less you are responsible. Remember this when you’re at your job.

Forgetting your birthright is the first step in cleansing yourself from all of the noise antagonizing our beautiful world and society. Everything has been perfect for so long—why bother changing it? Don’t take my pretend luxuries away from me, it’s all I have. If you want orange juice, you are going to have to leave the house. Unless someone invents an orange juice delivery app. [NOTE TO SELF: IDEA FOR AN APP]

The unfathomable and painstaking truth is that whatever world you are creating, it must be thought-up. What a horrendous bore. If you ask the common millennial what is more important, good credit or good dreams, did you know that 69.3489% of trends pick good dreams? The youth of today are completely uneducated, they have no idea that without good credit, you can’t: buy a car; buy a house; buy a bank; buy a loan; buy a shark; buy a 4K TV from Best Buy on a plan for two years; buy an education; buy a life; buy a subscription; buy peace of mind; buy land; buy the truth. You can, however, buy video games. Literally the only perk.

When you look at someone’s life—better than yours—they only got there by playing by the rules and staying a structured, moral member of society. They did not spill their oatmeal all over themselves, nor did they need to continue wearing bibs at age thirty.

Let’s say you wanted to follow Frank and do it my way. That would require actually sitting down and focusing on yourself. I know, already you’re rolling your eyes! Right?! So cliche. You’d have to take time out of your, let’s face it, already too busy day to spend a little quality one-on-one with the deep-down that has no material value whatsoever, no seeable foundation, no property value, no credit line, no financial return, and zero ramifications to your everyday life. Some might try and counter you by saying, “Well, you can’t take it with you.” Maybe not, but you can leave it behind. The question becomes whether or not you want to do it now or later.  

Why let go of these attachments that create so much temporal glory in your life? You could be making music, helping others, writing blog posts, thinking about writing blog posts mid-post, reflecting about your post while writing, wondering what your next paragraph will be, thinking about how deep your satire is, wondering if readers will get it, thinking, how do I start the next part of the sentence, do I use thinking, or, wondering, or, a new word? What new word could I use to start a new sentence? Could it be, “could?”

Imagine how frivolous and free the world would be if more people answered their own questions and let their imaginations run wild and worked together to achieve unique, independent goals. Talk about chaos! It’s not like festivals happen every year that prove community is fluid and the needs and values of humanity have changed since hundreds of years ago proving common religious and political structures to be violent, misguided, jaded, outdated, and, like, not with the times, bro.

Truthfully, if you took five minutes a day, and meditated on your you, your magic, alone, unencumbered and emotionless, the answers would soon arrive—the pills hardest to swallow—actually, the planet, how about that? The only divine being that has ever mattered, is here for you. Imagine that our hearts are connected to the Earth’s magnetic field—but it’s not like anyone has ever proven that. Take a moment, and imagine how powerful you would be if you cleared all your blockages, let go of everything that mattered, and didn’t matter—same difference—processed your karma instantly, escaped your astrological confines, dissolved fear and worry, and empowered a purpose that you chose for yourself, taking that bullshit question, “What is the meaning of life?” and crushing it, obliterating it, destroying it, kaiju upon cityscape, stating: “I create that meaning, you God-fearing piece of shit.”

See, no one can prove that. But, not because there isn’t any proof. You don’t get it unless you’re there. From the outside, looking in, all you see is a fog. You’ve got to get there yourself—no one is going to help you. Usually this requires facing what it might take someone’s entire lifetime to process. That means you’d become a completely different person. That means letting go of the person you are. That means complete and utter transformation. I have several past lives in one lifetime.

There’s the farm boy. There’s the devoted Christian. There’s the semi-devoted Christian. There’s the young actor in New York City. There’s the Balinese adventurer. There’s the psychedelic researcher. There’s the Baby T-Rex. There’s the irrefutable revolutionary. There’s the ayahuasca devotee. There’s the Lucifer apologist. There’s the God-Killer. There’s the astrologer. There’s the conscious wanderer. There’s the writer. There’s the Gnostic scholar. There’s the Sophianic hero. There’s the gamer. There’s Shiva, the Destroyer. There’s Antares, rising in the East, and Aldebaran, setting in the West. There’s the reborn Angeleno. There’s more, and less, I’m sure.  

Kabir was an Indian mystic in the 15th century. Hearing rumors about his secrets of freedom and enlightenment, people would travel to his house to sit with him in satsang. Sometimes there were upwards of 500-600 people. Holding a torch, he would say, “Every man standing at the door, I have a torch in my hand. Come this way, and I will give you enlightenment. I will burn your house.” But they were considerably afraid. His daughter was not convinced that that many people were truly there to be liberated. One morning, his daughter approached those who where gathering outside their house. She said, “My father will be having interviews with each person who wants to sit with him. First you will lie down, and I will cut off your head. Then, I will take your head to my father and he will interview you. And, if he approves you, you can go in.” And one by one, they responded, gracefully, “Oh, we had to go to court today and wanted his blessing, but it is enough to be here, so thank you,” or, “We had a wedding today, and wanted his blessing, but it is enough to be here, so thank you,” and left. Kabir came out and saw that everyone was gone. “What have you done?” he asked his daughter. “See,” she said. “No one wants to be liberated. I only wanted to remove their head, not cut their head. To remove their ego.“

You must be willing to die, at least figuratively, in order to be reborn. And we don’t teach death—we fear it. That’s why this entire post, and the point of this satire, is mostly pointless. We are beyond hope. We are drenched in fear. And, I no longer want any orange juice.

[epochryphon]

Epoch of Decathylmite, 1-1: The Challenge for Inspiration

Ironically, there are no stars in Los Angeles. The belly of the beast will eventually begin the process of decomposition, slowly priming you — yes, you! — as fodder for a relentless demagogue. It’s alright if you don’t vibe; masses flock in droves for a chance to provide their bodies as blood sacrifice to the hungry god. On the other hand, burritos are delicious.

Pain is also completely optional. Wait in line to receive a complimentary gauze that our contracted professionals will spread over your eyes to filter in good vibes only. That’s right — no negativity, pls. Not here. The bliss of ignorance is a welcome addition to the imposed dreams of thousands who were led by breadcrumbs, promising delicious fantasies in the structure of the civilization. You are encouraged to leave qualms at the door; it’s all ok, and there’s nothing wrong. Nothing at all.

If you are discouraged, take to social media to release your concerns. Most importantly, if you have an opinion, voice it loudly, and don’t be afraid to let your emotions run wild as you confront the despicable, disgraceful, unforgivable humans that simply need to know that they’re wrong. Know that they will likely be completely consumed by their own perspectives, as well, perhaps on guard, so you might have to be even extra louder for them to hear you — really, really loud.

Be careful of ideas that completely shatter your reality — they are a threat to an already elusive peace of mind. Something that can’t be true, or, is too insane, or, is utterly offensive, will only trouble you further, as many of these ideas suggest despicable truths. Why would anybody lie? If you feel any tinge of discomfort, seriously, brush it aside. Especially if the ideas offend you in any way. There is no reason the world would be any different than the way it is being presented. If it is, only slightly, in a sort of inconsequential way.

You are not important, but your dreams are. You are only allowed to progress through life when you are given permission, and the hungry god-wyrm deems you ready for the next phase of preparation.

Anything that confuses you, or makes you think about life in a different way, is a complete distraction. You might want to use these labels to sub-categorize these distractions in your brain for easier digestion: weird, crazy, so gay, artistic, satanic, hippie, secular, spiritual, millennial, weeaboos, alt-right, alt-left, ctl-alt-del, etc. Remember that burrito? So good.

If you meet anyone that is exhibiting these traits, they might also be doing things “for no reason,” or “because they felt like it,” or purposefully trying to get a reaction out of you, to “see if you’re still alive.” These chaotic hipsters only disrupt the purposeful dynamic created by our Lord, the Great Wyrm Decathylmite sent to ingest us all by ceremonial hypnosis and an acute fascination with burritos. Decathylmite will cleanse our fears by numbing pains and allowing us to forget the many truths — or un-truths! — that have caused such regrettable suffering in the past.

It is imperative that your childhood is immediately abandoned. The stages of youth are filled with an imagination that is too unstable and destructive to fit within the modern realm of understanding. We are no longer a savage race, living organized, purposeful, society-driven, 401K’d, inherited, no-work, no-dream, computational, categorical, refined, streamlined, dry-cleaned, bee-lined, chi-declined, de-inclined, fear-bound, heaven-found, horde-demounting, roaring inter-speciecial, target-locking, enhanced missiline, irrefutable, re-constitutional, supertutional, stuptandutible, cracker-jacksutional, underpipslippable, tronbondictable, licketysplitical, dunedonafied, boner lives. Wait, not boner lives.

Welcome our Great and Mighty Lord Decathylmite, the Many-Toothed, the Great Digester, the World-Eater, the Conquering, the Extra-Slimey, the Giant Deucer, the Body of a Thousand Suns, the Surprisingly Good Cricket Player, the Ironic Abolisher, the Dynamic Completist, the Juicy Trickster, the Conniving Wonder, the Many-Faced, the Un-Named, the Black Hole of Doom, the Blacker Hole of Doom, The Blackest Hole, Period, Doom or Otherwise, the Highest Kills in All First-Person Shooters, the Priest of Passion, the Wolverine of Bed Sheets, the Large Lover, the Many-Liked, the Super-Swiped, the Alt-Mite, the Most-Primmed, the Powerfully-Preened, the Envy Queen, the Under-Wyrm, the Cool Teacher in High School, the Mr. Prom, the Wild, Wild, Wyrm Starring Will Smith, Kevin Kline, and Kenneth Branagh, the HBO’s Westwyrm, the Mr. Cool, the Dunderbutt, and the Precious Based On The Novel Push By Sapphire.

Through him, your fears are relinquished, your challenges completed, and your dark corners lit. There is no reason to question where the light comes from. It’s there, isn’t it? Isn’t that good enough? You’re happy, aren’t you? You’re content, right? You’re fed? You’re warm, when you want to be? You’re cool, when you want to be? You’re entertained, huh? TV is in a Golden Age, am I right? Why aren’t you satisfied? What are you missing? What more even is there? What more could there possibly be? What do you want from us? Why aren’t you happy? What more could you ask for?

Tell us. Tell us, and we’ll give it to you. Just tell us what you want. We’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you do, just don’t wake up. Don’t ask questions. Don’t think too much. Don’t wonder the obvious. Don’t challenge those in power, it’s not worth it. Don’t go within, there’s nothing there. Love everyone, without question. Hate no one, especially not the manipulators, the molesters, the war-criminals, the pedophiles, the persecutors, the abusers, the conspirers, and the liars. Hate is bad, it definitely does not have the potential to create responsible distinctions without emotional compromise. No. No, no no. Good burritos only.

When you’re asleep, you have no responsibility. That’s what’s so great about being asleep. You can shut out the world and all the noise — it’s so easy to do. We even have pills to help you. So many pills! And they’re all legal! So, no judgement from your fellow, lawful compatriot. Because the people from previous generations were way smarter than us, and knew exactly how to predict the social, technological, mythic, and cultural changes that have since changed our expectations, infrastructure, and brain chemistry to the point where we might as well be a completely different species.

There’s no point in remembering that the great shapers of the world were outcasted by those they wanted to help. There’s little relief there — because you’re just food for our Great Lord! Remember that there is not a hidden light in everyone, and that the planet is definitely not alive, and that you don’t have any responsibility whatsoever. Especially don’t remember that we have no power over you, and your limits are so unending that if you guys actually knew what was going on then it would be over in an instant. Don’t remember the last line of the poem that Jennifer Connelly has to say to David Bowie to free her baby brother which is a metaphor for the inner-child to escape from the Labyrinth that he created for her because she wished for it and it is only a slave to her as long as her mind gives the illusion a reason to exist.

Happy new moon. Is there more burrito?