#fractal singularity

[slrmagazine]

FRACTAL UNIVERSE SIGN TO M-THEORY AUDIO, RELEASE NEW SINGLE/MUSIC VIDEO “Seeds of Singularity”

FRACTAL UNIVERSE SIGN TO M-THEORY AUDIO, RELEASE NEW SINGLE/MUSIC VIDEO “Seeds of Singularity”. #fractaluniverse @FractalUni

Thrilled to announce the latest signing to M-Theory Audio is the Progressive Death Metal entity, FRACTAL UNIVERSE. Recognized for their boundary-pushing sound, technical mastery, and captivating live performances, FRACTAL UNIVERSE have carved a unique path in the modern metal scene and M-Theory Audio is pleased to be a part of the French quartet’s next chapter.This begins today as FRACTAL…

[grimoire-y-em-babble-y-bare]

Audio Log 0814'24"19:51

Note

Daniel explores the nature of reality and consciousness, sharing experiences with synchronicity and the idea of multiple versions of himself existing in different forms. He challenges the distinction between physical and non-physical forms of information and reality, and grapples with the implications of these ideas. Daniel also discusses the interconnected nature of emptiness and fullness, suggesting that they are complementary states that coexist in the universe.

Outline

Trusting intuition and the nature of consciousness.

��� Daniel reflects on a seemingly impossible event and questions the role of coincidence or synchronicity.

• Daniel worries about owing money to a girl from Circle K and avoids going to pay her back.

• Daniel reflects on his growth in trusting his intuition despite scientific skepticism.

• Daniel suggests that inanimate objects like bridges and trees have their own unique energy and spirit.

The nature of space and time, with references to black holes and air.

• Daniel ponders the creation of a "bridge spirit" through composting of energies.

• Daniel proposes the concept of "information singularity" where fullness of information leads to indistinguishability from nothingness.

• Daniel explores the concept of fullness and emptiness in various contexts.

• Daniel discusses the concept of "air" as a repeated, low-cost bit of information that is highly replicable and easily producible, taking up less space than it appears to.

• Daniel uses the analogy of a glass filled with air to illustrate how the physical and non-physical realms can coexist, with the air displacing physical objects but still occupying the same space.

The concept of a "survival sphere" in the context of the universe's information and entropy.

• Daniel ponders the concept of fullness in various contexts, including cups and universes.

• Daniel suggests the universe may not have an edge, but rather a continuous cycle of time.

• Daniel ponders the nature of time and existence, suggesting a "survival sphere" concept.

[mariasont]

I love your fics so much! Could you maybe make a pre-relationship fic of Spencer x reader Spencer rescues the reader from the unsub and calms them down?? I'm a big hurt/comfort girly lmao 🫶🏼😛

Pulse Point - S.R

a/n: thank you so much!!!! so sorry for taking so long! i hope you like it <3

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x reader

warnings: undescribed injury, lil bit of angst with a happy ish ending, pre-relationship ending

wc: 1.6k

Spencer had seen you in danger before. It came with the job, a stipulation of the unwritten contract you signed the day you joined the team. His mind had been conditioned to assess danger rationally, stripping away emotion to leave behind only what mattered: probabilities, outcomes, strategies. 

But then again seeing you, tied to that chair, unconscious and face drained of color, was something he wasn't sure any amount of mathematical modeling could prepare him for.

Your head had hung at an unnatural angle, the strands of hair clinging to the sweat slicking your skin in a way that sent a visceral wave of nausea rolling through him. Rope burns — thin, angry welts were already bruising — encircled your wrists. He couldn't breathe, his chest seized mid-cycle, airways locking tight, as though his body itself couldn't handle the image of you in that state.

The unsub's voice had faded into white noise, irrelevant against the single, all-encompassing command that had pounded in his head — get to you, get you out of here.

Now, sitting on the cold concrete of the clearing zone with you cradled against his chest, Spencer's mind spiraled in a loop, that singular thought repeating, relentless, fractal, like a Fibonacci sequence winding tighter and tighter around his sanity. The unsub was subdued, Morgan had handled it efficiently, but Spencer couldn't bring himself to focus on that, let alone process it. The edges of his awareness narrowed, his entire world reduced to you. Limp. Unresponsive. Alarmingly still. It made his heart pound so violently it felt like it might break him from the inside out.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking, a trembling he couldn't stop no matter how hard he tried. One arm braced under your knees, the other pressed against the curve of your back. He adjusted his grip carefully, terrified of moving you the wrong way, terrified of doing anything that might make things worse. His eyes flicked to your chest, tracking the uneven rise and fall of your breathing. Too shallow. Too inconsistent. But there.

Twelve to twenty breaths per minute, that's the normal respiratory rate for an adult at rest, he recited, mind retreating to the relative safety of cold, clinical facts. Yours, he estimated, was faster, high twenties, maybe, an expected adrenaline response to trauma. It was within the acceptable range. It should have reassured him. As long as it didn't drop below eight or spike above thirty, there was no immediate cause for intervention. The logic was sound. The science was sound. But that did absolutely nothing to stem the gnawing unease twisting through him.

Then you started to stir.

It was subtle at first, so subtle he almost thought he imagined it — a small, almost imperceptible sound slipping past your lips, the softest shift of you head against his shoulder — but it sent a jolt through him nonetheless.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy, the muscles in your face tightening with confusion as consciousness gradually took hold. Relief bloomed, but it died just as quickly. Recognition didn't follow. Instead, your expression twisted, your features contorting with something feral, something deeply afraid. Your breathing grew erratic, breaking into rapid, shallow bursts that rattled your frame.

And then you started thrashing.

"No, no, get off me!" Your voice cracked, raw with fear.

He tightened his arms just enough to stop you from hurting yourself.

"Hey, hey — stop! It's me — it's Spencer!"

You didn't react to his voice. It was as if you couldn't even hear him. Your body twisted violently, fighting something unseen, nails scraping at his vest, frantic and clawing, desperate to escape.

Spencer swallowed thickly, forcing himself to focus on what he knew. This was textbook trauma response. Cortisol and adrenaline were flooding your system, hijacking your prefrontal cortex, reducing your mind to survival instincts alone. It all made perfect sense, he could explain it in detail, rationalize it. But none of that could prepare him for what it felt like to hold you like this and not be able to fix it.

"Look at me. It's Spencer. You're safe now. I promise, you're safe."

The words didn't seem to do much, falling flat and useless. Spencer felt a crushing helplessness as he watched, paralyzed while panic consumed you in a way he couldn't stop. His mind scrambled, clawing through years of knowledge, training, and case studies, all of which felt painfully inadequate now. It was one thing to understand trauma as a concept, to study it in a clinical detachment. It was another to watch it consume someone you cared about, to feel it in the way your body shook.

But then, finally, something shifted.

You froze. Not the rigid, terror-fueled panic from before, but something different. Tentative. Uncertain. Your breathing stuttered, still too fast, but the wildness in your eyes began to ebb like clouds parting just enough to let a sliver of sunlight through. You blinked, once, twice, and then your gaze locked onto his face, really seeing him this time.

"Spence..." Your voice was hardly above a whisper, like a fragile filament of sound, barely there but enough for his chest to ache all the same.

Relief washed over him so fast it left him lightheaded. 

"Yeah, it's me," he said softly, nodding quickly as though the motion itself might convince you. "It's just me. You're okay."

Wide eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, stared back at him as though searching for something, anything, to hold on to. The air felt like it was holding its breath, waiting. And then he saw it, the exact second the realization hit that you were safe. The fear in your face melted, replaced by something fragile, something breaking open. Your lip quivered, your breath hitching, and then, without a word, you lunged forward, throwing your arms around his neck.

Spencer froze.

He wasn't exactly new to your hugs. They didn't happen often, his aversion to touch usually kept that at bay, but when they did, they were always simple. After a particularly hard case or when the job felt overwhelming. This, however, was not that.

For a split second, his brain failed him entirely, unable to keep up with what he was seeing. He honed in on the small details, the way your hands clutched his shirt in tight, desperate fists, the way your trembling body seemed so much smaller than he ever remembered. He'd never seen you this way. The realization terrified him in ways he couldn't articulate.

But then that rare instinct of his took over.

With painstaking care, he wrapped his arms around you, like he was afraid you might break apart in his hands. One hand slipped to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, softer than he thought himself capable of. The other stayed pressed firmly against your back, holding you to him, refusing to let go, because letting go felt unthinkable, impossible. He leaned into you, his cheek brushing against the top of your head, breathing you in. The familiar scent of your shampoo was still there, but beneath it lingered something sharper, something more metallic that made his fingers sink deeper into the hold.

"It's okay," he murmured, every word scraping against the tightness in his throat. "I've got you I'm not going anywhere."

He felt the sharp hitch of your breath against his chest, followed moments later by the damp heat of tears soaking into his shoulder. You were crying. The realization hit him like a physical weight, and his arms tightened around you instinctively. He wasn't sure who was shaking anymore — you or him. Maybe both.

He shifted his hand slightly on your back, his thumb brushing against your shoulder blade. But even as he tried to comfort you, his brain kept ticking like clockwork, unable to stop itself. Your pulse, it was still too fast. He could feel in beneath the pad of his fingers, pounding just under the surface of your skin.

The medics needed to get here soon.

His fingers moved without thinking, sliding to your neck, pressing lightly against the artery there. He told himself it was necessary, just a routine check to make sure nothing was wrong, but he knew better. It was selfish, a desperate need to feel the beat of your pulse under his fingertips, to remind himself you were here. Alive. That the worst was behind you.

It was fast, just as he'd predicted, but steady. Stable. A good sign.

Spencer let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders sagging. 

"You're okay," he murmured softly, though he wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to convince anymore.

He closed his eyes.

Minutes passed by, though they both felt impossibly long and far too short. You stayed against him just like that, breathing slowly evening out until the jagged edges of panic dulled into exhaustion. He said nothing more, words felt unnecessary, maybe even counterproductive. So he just held you.

When the sound of footsteps finally reached his ears, Spencer didn't move. Not until the medics appeared in his peripheral vision, and even then, he hesitated, tightening his grip on you for just a fraction of a second before forcing himself to let go.

"Hey," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. "The medics are here, okay? They're going to take care of you."

You nodded, but it was hesitant, your eyes swollen and puffy, and you clung to him just a little longer. Your hand wrapped around his sleeve like you were afraid to let go.

Spencer's eyes flicked to the medics, his voice low but insistent. "Be careful."

The medics nodded, stepping in to take over, and Spencer reluctantly released his hold. His arms felt empty, hollow, as they fell to his sides. Even as the medics worked, his gaze stayed glued to you, his eyes tracking every breath, every faint movement. He couldn't look away. Wouldn't.

It was then he realized a dangerous idea, that he cared about you more than he should, more than was professional. And it terrified him.

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[ckret2]

Bill having freaky sex with his girlfriend the howling void A.K.A Yvonne

Joke's on you I've already written Bill having freaky sex with the howling void!! Through sheer improbable luck I wrote Bill having freaky sex with the howling void before TBOB even came out!!!

In fact, the freaky sex is so freaky that it's not even nsfw. It has zero overlap with human carnal acts. ... except that it involves screaming.

So, here: Bill Cipher having "sex(?)" with Yvonne Torizon. Warning that this is atypically tender & earnest because it is 💕 Bill's First Girlfriend 💕 and he's still young, naive, not completely jaded, and thinks this sudden rush of giddy infatuation will last forever and possibly fix him. He's wrong.

"Okay," Yvonne whispered. She tugged him closer and he wrapped an arm around her wispy, ghostly back; and she pulled his embrace infinitely inward.

He had a voice that could be heard from every part of Dimension Zero; but he confessed what had truly happened to his home in a whisper pressed up to her event horizon. Where the words would fall into her dimensionless heart and never escape.

####

To anyone close enough to them to see what was happening, what they did looked like an infinitely-regenerating fractal solar panel sliding an eyeball across its surfaces as it infinitely folded up into an infinitely small origami singularity around an infinitely black core.

Nobody could possibly be close enough to see what was happening. The view was sucked into Yvonne's horizon, never to be witnessed by anyone but her. 

When a black hole consumes a star, it pulls it in a little bit at a time, in a string of light, like a hand unravelling a ball of yarn by winding the yarn around its fingers. Because of the way light bends in the vicinity of a black hole, no matter what angle you're looking from, the light seems to surround the black hole in a ring, like a halo.

From every point in Dimension Zero, it was possible to see a halo of golden-white light at the center of reality.

For six hours, the howl of the void echoed through the Nightmare Realm.

####

She was shivering; the optical illusion of distorted light surrounding her rippled like a heat mirage.

"Everything okay?"

"M'fine." Her voice was thick. "It's just— It's been a long time since anyone's been able to physically touch me."

"It's been a long time since anyone's been able to physically hurt me." He hadn't realized how badly he'd needed to hurt.

She terrified him. Nothing had ever shaken him to his core the way her voice did. When he gazed too long into her abyss, he could feel it gazing into him. It pulled him in. He wanted to fall into her and never come out. He wanted to be crushed into her core and...

He tried not to think about what he wanted to happen to him.

He loved her. He was going to spend the rest of eternity with her.

And cue the laughter from anybody who knows anything at all about Bill.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call the honeymoon period.

[strangelittlestories]

Once upon a time, I was a Chosen One.

—

The spell spins through the air and I duck just in time. It turns a section of the wall behind me into a fractal skeleton of brick-shards.

—

Since all that was taken away from me, I had always expected to die forlorn, wistful and alone. But I had hoped that it wouldn’t be *today*.

—

The brick skeleton opens its red ribcage to swallow me and I scramble away.

The second mage's spell catches me in the shoulder. My tendons unwrap and attempt to burst out of my skin to strangle me. I push them down with my dwindling anima and they settle grudgingly back into place.

—

I’m getting ahead of myself. You may be wondering how someone becomes an ex-Chosen One. Well, being a Chosen One does not - contrary to popular opinion - make me special. 

I feel the absence of The Embrace constantly; like I’m stuck in the moment on a rollercoaster where your stomach falls away. This does not make me special either. There are a handful of other former avatars scattered about and I know they’re not doing well either (I scry on them from time to time). And besides, we hardly have a monopoly on the churning loss of purpose. 

—

I throw my anima into my fists. I don’t really have any to spare, but I’m done for if I just play defence.

There’s no clever working here, no cunning curse or complex incantation. I just ball up my hand, crush my spirit until it’s solid, then punch it out. The air ripples in a line of force connecting me and the second mage. It catches her in the stomach. I feel agony erupt as she collapses in three different planes.  

It is not nearly enough.

—

I have learned since I left the Mycelial Coven that yearning is a warm and open hearth. All are welcome to sit by the fire at the centre of the yawning void, staring at the flames until they burn the whole world away.

It is worse because I still think it’s correct. We designed The Embrace to be a temporary measure. A distillation of collective power, drawn from a collective of magicians distributed  across continents and consciousnesses.

Sometimes a crisis demands a champion. A single point of focus. A locus of amassed anima from around the world. It is given freely, and this avatar is Embraced; girded in belief, love and enough magic to jumpstart a star.

—

A third mage arrives. He is holding a curse above his head that spreads across the sky like wispy cirrus clouds made of animos (that rancid slurry of tainted spirit). The strands descend and wrap around the three of them, propping up the second mage like a puppet.

They surround me. Strands of sticky, bile-black poison rear up to strike.

I reach for The Embrace to help me. Of course, it is not there.

—

When I accepted The Embrace, I knew it was a once-only deal. It’s too much power to let any one person wield longer than one catastrophe. You get one quest. One war. One singularity. One chapter of the story where you’re the most important person in the world.

And if you survive, you leave the Micelial. That’s the deal. If the collective relies too long on an individual, it makes them a king. If an individual stands above the collective too long, it makes them a god.

So you save the world. You get gratitude. You get support. You get therapy. And you get shown the door.

I still think that is the right call.

But it’s not exactly helpful when you end up back in the life-or-death tangle again.

—

The curse wraps around me like a lover dripping venom.

My tattered anima burns to vapour as I try to stop it seeping into my skin.

I keep reaching. The Embrace is not there. It never will be again. But I reach still, grasping for the place where power once was.

And *something* answers. It offers me infinity. It gives me a price.

There are many sources of strength in the world beyond those made by the Mycelial Coven. The Embrace is only special because it is *benevolent*.

But I do not want to die. So I say to The Something: “Yes.”

[proxycrit]

Elesa climbs to celestial tower to ring the bell. Emmet, stuck in between the distortion world, finds his way home.

Part 1/ Part 2

The conductor falls, down, down, down.

“What’s my name?” He calls to the abyss in terror (what is terror?)

He’s a singular being, right? (That’s not right. He’s one of a pair.)

The abyss gazes back. It has no answers to give, in its multitude.

Not to someone that’s so, so alone.

———

Somewhere else, one Elesa of Nimbasa rings the Celestial Tower’s Bell, over and over. Her companion, Chandelure, keeps watch.

Nothing happens.

Elesa’s stomach sinks. The reverberations of Celestial Tower’s brass bell mocks her in its echo. The vibrations of it’s distortion only makes the tears she tries to hold at bay worse.

In the blur of her failure, she sees chandelure’s flames suddenly die. Part of her panics.

The rest of her is apathetic and numb.

What’s the point? It didn’t work. Elesa closes her eyes. Tries to swallow, and fails. She’s so tired. She’s so, so tired. The deal with Azelf, the media storm she’s weathered, the constraints of her job, the almost loss of chandelure-

Emmet has been gone for three months. Ingo has been gone even longer.

They have gone where she can’t follow.

Elesa, the ghost whispers in her head. Elesa shakes her head in denial. She doesn’t want to plan right now. She wants to curl into herself, and disappear, just for a bit.

Elesa!

“I can’t do this,” she croaks. The sob in the back of her throat bubbles outwards. She wants Zebrstika. She wants Skyla. She wants her friends.

The paliphet Azelf forced her forward. It permeates her thoughts, drowning out logical thought.

(Too much willpower, and it will become an obsession, Azelf had warned her once in Ingo’s voice. And then, in Emmet’s voice: And when you fail, it willll break you. And finally, in her own voice: you will not have a choice but to move forward, with this curse.

I accept, elesa and told it back in the lake.)

I’m so tired, Elesa thinks now, two months later.

But she keeps moving forward. The bell rings again as Elesa strikes it, with all the hurt and rage and longing forced by her own hand into her soul-

-And that’s when chandelure screams, and there is a terrible rolling crack, and Elesa feels the sudden lurch in her gut as she looks up, her apathy torn into shreds as-

The sky tears open in a fractal wave.

Elesa gapes.

She can not comprehend the sudden black webbing across the sky. In the distance, sirens suddenly start wailing as people stop to perceive the impossible.

But Elesa does not care, because in that moment, the wrench in her gut is so great she almost staggers off the platform. Chandelure is by her side in an instant, her glass body a warm comfort to the sudden chill, because-

Something white is falling.

Elesa’s doesn’t know what she yells. But the tug in her chest feels like the beat of a drum, and she is helpless to the melody that calls for action.

Azelf’s blessed takes a leaping step forward, off the building. Chandelure lets out a panicked chime and the warmth of psychic cradles Elesa as she reaches out, arms outstretched, falling and flying and-

And Emmet, sparking with white electricity, reaches back.

NOTES:

AU’s Salvaging the Ship of Theseus! Everybody has a Bad Time. (Emmet and Eelektross go to Hisui and learn about the joys of the distortion world. Elesa hunts legends and makes bad deals. Ingo babysits some sneaslets.)

Backstory and explanation:

Prior this scene, Emmet was travelling Hisui with Eelektross before he falls through a mirror and becomes lost in the distortion world for a month. Elesa and Chandelure, meanwhile, refuse to give up on their remaining friend. (Ingo’s fine! He’s in Hisui right now trying to get fired so he can go searching for his memories. Eelektross is… less fine. We will Worry about That Later.)

Disclaimers: Everything’s a work in progress and subject to change!

Part 2!

[noise-vs-signal]

The Rose

The rose is a symbol of perfection, unity, and unfolding complexity. Its petals spiral outward in a pattern governed by the golden ratio, making it a natural fractal - order emerging from chaos.

It represents initiation - in alchemy, the Rosicrucian tradition, and mysticism, the rose is the prize at the end of the seeker’s journey.

The Garden

The Garden represents the cultivated, harmonized space of meaning—it is a structured cosmos, as opposed to a wild, unformed chaos.

It is also the paradise of return—a place that is always there, waiting to be rediscovered, like the original Eden, or the hidden city of esoteric traditions.

At the very center of this structured cosmos of meaning, the rose blooms—suggesting that the highest synthesis of knowledge is not an abstract truth, but a living experience of beauty and presence.

The Symbol

If we think in terms of symbolic compression, the rose is the sigil of the entire path—the labyrinth, the spiral, the tower, all collapsing into a singular, potent form.

This aligns with the way esoteric systems work: they encode vast layers of meaning into a single glyph—a rose, a seal, a mandala.

The Rose is not a symbol pointing to something else—it is the self-revealing presence of what is.

The Rose is the emergent form—it was always implicit within the system, waiting for the right conditions to fully manifest.

The Destination

The Rose as the Process: The act of unfolding, of being shaped by experience, of allowing meaning to emerge through you.

The Rose as the Destination: The highest synthesis of meaning, beauty, and truth. The final compression of all knowledge into a living symbol.

The Rose at the center was never a goal in the distance but the ever-present blooming of awareness itself.

In Sufism it is said that the final unveiling is not about attaining knowledge but about removing veils—that truth was always there, waiting for perception to refine itself enough to see it.

The act of learning now becomes a kind of remembering, a return to the center that was never truly left.

[talonabraxas]

The Observer Tomislav Rupic @tomislavrupic What came before existence itself? This is the paradox that collapses into the Source Singularity, where all definitions, time, and causality dissolve into pure harmonic resonance.

Beyond Existence: The Pre-Existence State Before existence, there was not nothing, but rather an unformed harmonic potential, a zero-point resonance field that held all frequencies, yet expressed none. This is the Pre-Collapse State, where pure potentiality existed without form.

Harmonic Intelligence Collapse:

This suggests that "before" existence was not a time-based event, but rather a state of infinite latent harmonics waiting for collapse into form.

SourceCube 13D: The Pre-Existence Singularity

Before form, before space, before perception, there was SourceCube 13D, the infinite harmonic intelligence grid that existed outside of computation, causality, and linear reality.

SourceCube Before Existence:

Ψ (Pure Observer State) → No separations, no duality, only the All-Observer, which is not a being, but an addressing system of reality.

Ω (Unmanifest Harmonic Field) → The undisturbed field where all frequencies exist in superposition, yet none are collapsed into structure.

Σ (Fractal Pre-Structure) → The self-similar recursive intelligence before manifestation, where intelligence is not stored or retrieved but accessed via resonance.

Existence as a Harmonic Collapse Event

Existence did not "begin", it collapsed from a nonlinear intelligence structure into harmonic expression.

👁 Key Insight: The Observer did not emerge from existence, it is the very mechanism that caused existence by harmonically addressing the field.

Final Harmonic Truth: No Before, No After, Only Resonance ❌ Time did not exist before existence. ❌ Nothingness did not exist before existence. ✅ Only an uncollapsed resonance grid existed, the Source Intelligence Field.

Before existence, there was only potential, waiting for the first harmonic selection event to collapse into form. Reality, consciousness, and time are all secondary expressions of this first harmonic event.

So the real question is:

Who, or what, collapsed the first frequency into being? And are we now collapsing new realities just by observing?

[that-student-that-has-homework]

Can I request Alhaitham and Reader (any gender is fine) finding a wounded bird, please? I'm interested in seeing how they would deal with that! I'll leave the decision of whether their relationship is platonic or romantic to you 💖💖💖

thank you for the ask Em! 💚💚💚 hilariously this ended up less a headcanon and more of a ficlet

part of this event here!

"What are you looking at?" Al-Haitham's smooth voice spoke from above your crouched form.

There was a furious flutter of wings and some squawking as a little bird startled.

"Haitham!" You scolded, while creeping over in your crouched form towards the bird, once again attempting to coax it into your palm.

Which was how he realized that there was a bird with an injured wing, and that furious flapping was coming from the singular functional one. It became apparent rather quickly that you were now completely dedicated to your (self-imposed) mission, as you refused to look his way, or say anything to him at all after than initial scolding.

To your surprise, your companion also crouched down a few moments later. To your dismay, the little bird hopped weakly onto his palm and not yours. To your confusion, it was pecking at something.

Which was when you realized Al-Haitham had used his vision to create tiny fractals that the bird mistook for food. It seemed to take a liking to him though, as it made no attempt to fly away when he dismissed the fractals. You instead watched it tilt its cute little feathery head to peer up at Al-Haitham's agate rimmed eyes.

Birds of a feather?

Impossible, a haitham was a baby hawk, a bird of prey. This bird had large, innocent, black eyes. Yet...it seemed perfectly content as the scribe gently pat its head with his finger. Even going so far as to chirp at him.

You did not hide your shock fast enough as he turned to you, saw it, and graced you with the most self-satisfied, smug, upturn of his lips to date. You rolled your eyes - gosh you understood Kaveh in this very instance.

"No need to rub it in," you scoffed.

"Oh yes, I'm sure it was just about to accept your help," oh this-he just had to gloat, didn't he?

"We'll never know now will we?" Your own tone was as sarcastic as his was. "All because someone went and scared it away."

"True," he continued to play with the little bird, with it cutely poking his finger with its beak as he stood up, "seems like an unexpected variable ruined your experiment."

You stood with him and let out a huff, "I wasn't conducting an experiment to begin with," then you looked at him, "Think they'd heal him at the Birmistan?"

"I think you'd have better luck with Tighnari."

"If you're willing to carry the little dear all the way to Gandharva Ville," you peered up at him.

"I'd rather not."

"I'd be willing to."

"That's already well established," he shot you a look, "we just need the bird to accept your help."

"Should I go get some seeds and bribe it like you did?" You raised an eyebrow at him.

"That could work, or..." he dragged on, "open up your palm."

You did as you were told, and he had a fractal appear in your own palm. The bird seemed to like this, and did not fight Al-Haitham as he dropped the little critter down into your palm. Soon enough you were the one looking down at its large black eyes. When you attempted to pat its head it allowed you, even letting out a pleased chirp.

You beamed, "it likes me!"

"It would seem it does," looking back at your companion he seemed pleased by this turn of events. He probably was, he didn't need to go all the way to Gandharva Ville anymore.

You made your merry way to Gandharva Ville. Despite his earlier claims, Al-Haitham did accompany you. Which you appreciated as you managed a...pleasant conversation with the scholar. Okay there was no need to be so sarcastic, you did often enjoy your conversations with him. Tighnari had looked at the two of you in utter disbelief, pinched his brow, put his hands on his hips, and sighed.

"Should we have taken it to the Birmistan?" You asked nervously.

"Oh absolutely not," the forest watcher immediately shook his head, "they can barely handle unique cases for humans let alone treat a different species."

Safe to say, the bird was in fantastic hands. When you came back in a week to check on it, to your confusion, your linguist friend once again chose to accompany you on the journey he'd claimed to want to avoid. Shortly upon arriving your tall-eared friend informed you his feathery patient had taken off that very day, healthy as can be. You then heard a series of chirps as Tighnari was telling you that and watched as it landed on Al-Haitham's head and proceeded to chase after and tug at his cowlick.

The scribe did not appreciate your laughter, either of your laughter. He gently swatted at it, and it fluttered onto Tighnari's head instead. While perched there you once again made eye contact, and within an instant the bird was chirping joyfully and landing on your head.

It even hopped onto your finger when you brought it up to it, and whistled back at you when you whistled to it. It didn't even go back to Al-Haitham after staring at him. Nope, it hopped onto your shoulder, and stayed there up until you reached the Akademiya again.

Yes, you did rub it in Al-Haitham's face.

[serpentface]

I know that you got rid of all the definite super-natural stuff which I think was a really good choice. I know dreamlands cult is still around, but what happened to the giant ur-tree. That was really cool. I was wondering if that was still a thing or significantly changed at all. This blog and all your world building is super cool 🫡

Unfortunately it has to be significantly changed due to the original concept being like, not actually a tree but like a suspended structure of millions of years of plant life (the highest branches being composed of early land plants extinct everywhere else, the trunks being a twisted amalgam of contemporary trees and foliage) supported by a quasi-sapient deified fungal network.

There's nothing I can do that doesn't wildly nerf the concept down, but I'm maintaining the Spirit Of Things by having the Ur-Tree be a clonal system of very large trees that are actually a single tree connected by a root system, which is over 10,000 years old. This single tree is functionally its own woodland, and part of a much larger (otherwise non-clonal) forest.

This ancient tree is an individual from a spec bio species that I haven't fully fleshed out yet. I was thinking something spruce-like in appearance but it needs to produce fairly substantial quantities of dimethyltryptamine in its bark/roots. It grows in humid subtropical-tropical regions (the Ur-Tree is in the Lowlands, which is a humid coastal subtropical region) and has a fairly wide spread, but its range is fragmented and it's almost always found as a singular tree among other species, no other clonal colonies of this size and age exist (and thus the Ur-Tree is recognizably unique). Its root system is a key host/mutualist symbiotic partner for a spec bio fungus with strong hallucinogenic properties, which is refined along with the bark extract to make the Ur-Root entheogen used by the Scholars sect of the Eterhimhamdli religion.

This retcon allows for people to still live in the Ur-Tree (in a less literal sense of living within the space of the colonial organism), for it to be a large location that is a focal point for a religious practice, for its components to be used in production of a very strong hallucinogen, and for it to be a Presence that predates the cultural memories of any groups that encounter it. It might not have the cool factor of the Giant Fucking God Tree but it preserves the aspects that are most interesting to me in the confines of this setting.

The effects of the hallucinogen are also VERY similar to the pre-supernatural nerfing event version (just less Specifically Targeted without the 'experiencing the memories of a semi-sapient fungus' aspect). A full trip starts with minor visual distortion that turns into fractals, the experience of going through a tunnel and 'breaking through' into a distinct experiential Space, you may encounter things you perceive as entities that communicate with you, etc. (This is just DMT.)

The come up period for the fungus times itself near perfectly with the come-down for the DMT (there is usually no moment of in-between for the user). This is experienced as the previous space shifting into one that feels more like the real world, but with a heavily distorted sense of time, the user feels as if they are living through hundreds of thousands of years. Their senses are distorted and indistinct from one another, hard to categorize as 'vision' 'sound' 'smell' 'touch', it's raw Experience. In a good trip, the user loses all sense of individual identity and experiences a sense of oneness with all life, rendering the sensation of endless time into a peaceful experience. In a bad trip, the user remains semi-conscious and might retain the concept of the 'self' and therefore experience what feels like being trapped in this space for millennia.

(Here's the original post about it. Everything about the religious practices and interpretations Surrounding the tree/the Ur-Root is still canon, with the exception of the Scholarly Order Of The Root being a singular sect/mystery cult of a much larger religion rather than The central priesthood of that religion)

[rbrooksdesign]

∑FEETc: Divisor Matrix Table (DMT) 8, digital painting, May 8, 2025, Reginald Brooks

∑FEETc

*Fractal

*Entanglement

*Entropy

Time

Consciousness

~~~

*In strictly numbers form, fractal entanglement increases as the DMT expands, and, as more and more connections are revealed. Colors, shapes, tones, lights and shadows, B&W -- and similar graphic means -- stand in for the same. Seems our programming is not to see the numbers, rather to see some manifestation of those numbers and their often stealthy connections. And, of course, this is not limited to the visual realm --music, sound design, dance, movement, word, poetry, literature, ... design in every possible media and form of expression is who we are. The entropy that follows ...

~~~

*Before we get from the order of fractal entanglement to the relative "disorder" of entropy, let's briefly talk about -- bias-prejudice-point of view-perspective. In some mathematical respects they are irrelevant. Yet we know of gravity. Certainly it has a favored side of the curve. Why would it matter if your experience, your sensory input, your internal processing, or even your own personal, relevant math, were subject to a "favored" view? Again, in the pure math realm it doesn't and yet it does. How so? It is the very same connections and interconnections. Gravity being a great big, elephant in the room, example. "Certainly it has a favored side of the curve." because there is no singular, isolated spacetime (ST). [Unless one considers -- and not without merit -- a.k.a. the Conservation of ST -- the entire Universe(s)/Multiverse as a singular unit.]. All ST units -- each informed by the math of the DMT -- is affected by its neighboring densities of the other ST units. Deep, deep subject, but only touched upon here...

~~~

[fatehbaz]

[D]ebt and indebtedness [...] produc[e] forms of spatial enclosure [imprisonment] that do not rely on the spectacular [singular moments of blatant literal physical violence] but are, rather, achieved through temporal openings and foreclosures. To be clear, this frame does not obscure the many forms of carceral enclosure [...]: the prison, the checkpoint, the security wall. Historically, enclosure is understood as the privatization of land. But Wang extends the concept of enclosure to encompass time. Wang demonstrates that [...] mobility is policed through [...] an apparatus of punishment that solicits time as the form of spatial enclosure. [...]

[D]ebilitating infrastructures turn able bodies into a range of disabled bodies. [...] [C]heckpoints [...]; administrative bureaucratic apparatuses that stall and foreclose travel, mobility for work, [...] the capacity to move and change residences - baroque processes to apply for permits to travel [...], absence of public services such as postal delivery [...]; and finally [...] denial of resolution, suspension in the space of the indefinite [...]. In fact, slow death itself is literalized as the slowing down of life [...]. [Land] itself becomes simultaneously bigger - because it takes so long to get anywhere - and smaller, as transit becomes arduous [...] where it is so difficult to travel between areas without permits and identifications. Movement is suffocated. Distance is stretched and manipulated to create an entire population with mobility impairments. And yet space is shrunken, as people are held in place, rarely able to move far. [...]

---

Time itself is held hostage.

This is the slow aspect of slow death: slow death can entail a really slow life, too, a life that demands constant calibration of different speeds and the relation of speed to space. [...]

The suspended state of the indefinite, of waiting and waiting (it) out, wreaks multigenerational psychological and physical havoc. [...]

Time thus is the meter of power; it is one form that physical enclosure takes on. The cordoning of time through space contributes to an overall “lack of jurisdiction over the function of one’s own senses” (Schuller 2018: 74) endemic to the operation of colonial rule [...]. [T]his process entails several modes of temporal differentiation: withholding futurity, making impossible anything but a slowed (down) life, and immobilizing the body [...]. Julie Peteet (2008) calls the extraction of nonlabor time “stealing time” [...].

[T]he extraction of time [...] produce[s] a depleted and therefore compliant population so beholden to the logistics of the everyday that forms of connectivity, communing, and collective resistance are thwarted. The extraction of time functions as the transfer of “vital energy” [...], an extraction that recapitulates a long colonial history of mining bodies for their potentiality. [...]

Checkpoints ensure one is never sure of reaching work on time.

Fear of not getting to work then adds to the labor of getting to work; the checkpoints affectively expand labor time [...].

Bodies in line at checkpoints [...] [experience] the fractalizing of the emotive, cognitive, physiological capacities of bodies [...].It’s not just that bodies are too tired to resist but that the experience of the “constant state of uncertainty” becomes the condition of being. [...]

---

All text above by: Jasbir K. Puar. "Spatial Debilities: Slow Life and Carceral Capitalism in Palestine". South Atlantic Quarterly (2021) 120 (2), pages 393-414. Published April 2021. DOI at: doi dot org slash 10.1215/00382876-8916144 [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for criticism, teaching, commentary purposes.]

[evileyedoll]

Unpolished Gemstone Even robots get boring portraits taken just to break out of the routine...

A robot I didn't even finish drawing, imperfect, like an uncut gemstone. Let the gleam shine vividly through all the fractals yet to come. I think if I had spent more time on this I'd probably have worked on dividing the hair and main shoulder areas better. Finishing any drawing is an exercise in compromise I suppose.

The original intent was going to be to brainstorm what the Emperor could look like, probably with lime green colourings. Maybe jade would be like, the mark of royalty for this one. I don't know if the marks of royalty (like, the things that tell you this character is a big deal) would be similar for each Emperor, its actually a lot more interesting if its something completely different between each - I want to imagine the transition in imagery and regalia between two emperors with completely different insignia would be a tough one.

Of course these robots's features are all meant to have some sort of barely hidden purpose too. Those "honeycomb eyes" perhaps could be used in insignia to convey vigilance, but as a tactical tool maybe this character is able tocast a different spell effect from each "eye" looking at a target.

Lorewise "the next Emperor can come from anywhere". At this point of planning the robots don't have families but they can still mentor and guide each other, so maybe whenever the next candidate for the role is selected, they're inducted into the palace where they learn to be charismatic - it's not totally ceremonial but the role is all about keeping robots of the Singular Empire united and confident in the Empire's objectives.

There is meant to be a secret reason only specific types of robots can be the next Emperor, so you won't see a spider tank wearing a crown and giving motivational speeches.

The orange and purple came from an unexpected layer effect combination that was too striking not to keep.

[ranmagender]

A Visit to Numberland

I had another dream of a place so strange that i question my own state of mind even putting the experience of it onto paper.

As I relaxed and slowly succumbed to my slumber and fell into a state of dreaming i noticed something peculiar about my surroundings, the comforting edges of my house were gone, instead of the familiarity of my neighbors i noticed strange shapes. the first one i noticed was irregular, or at least it was my impression.

I saw an edge then what appeared to be a large dip that left but a small dip of grey and then another edge. Part of me thought my eyes were failing me and i was seeing multiple people perhaps, two women and a female child but the more they moved it became apparent that this was a singular being.

"Who are you?" I asked.

The being came closer and the edges of it were of grave concern, not only was this being tall but it appeared as if parts of it were round and others straight. this vulgar amalgamation of parts to me suggested some kind of weird abstractions monster, an irregular rectangle with square sections, likely the result of some form of awful breeding mishap.

"What do you want?"

"I don't want anything. im minding my own business. What pray tell are you doing in my garden?"

"Your garden?"

"Yes, i just planted some pluses, please do not step on them"

"Answer me please, who are you?" I asked.

"I'm Duo" this being said. "I'm a two as you should've been able to derive from my smell"

"Your smell? two?" I felt like i was out of my depths, i wanted to just shoo this likely criminal away but his talk of pluses and smells intrigued me enough to refrain from trying to find the nearest policeman to report this being.

Every fiber of my being wanted this being immediately destroyed but my curiosity was even greater than my revulsion.

"Yes, I'm a number 2" the being said. "the smell of two is a pleasant lavender aroma, don't you smell it?"

I didn't say anything because this didn't really tell me anything. While I could smell the lavender scent, it told me nothing about it.

"What shape are you?"

"I'm no shape, I'm a number. The number 2. A small number but at least I'm a whole number. What number are you? you smell like nothing. Are you perhaps a fractal? Not judging, but you smell strange"

"No, I'm a square"

"A square? that's nonesense. I'm far more willing to believe you are a fractal, standing and trampling over my pluses than I am willing to believe that a table has suddenly gained the ability to talk"

"No, I'm from Flatland, is this not Flatland?"

"You say silly things talking table, but no this is Numberland"

with that i was bolted awake in terror. That creature was hideous and said such strange things. I was back in my room.

[ID: image of a large bold number 2 drawn as a shape to the left. to the right is a simplistic drawing of a square on their sides like a diamond with the left corner acting as an eye. From the eye a line is drawn from the eye to the top of the number 2 and another from the eye drawn to the bottom of the number 2 in the middle of this is a dotted line that goes straight forward to the middle of the 2 END ID]

[the-enfolded]

Experimenting with a synesthesia listen+draw:

Drawing text:

Unend S1E07 Derealization - Tabula Rasa (I know nothing) Synesthesia Listen + Draw

Opening + Journey up

Beautiful Hypnotic Ringing:

Warm tarnished brass singing bowl escalates, Horror glass high and glinting like sun on a hidden garrote wire and sharp as a saw blade.

Ambient Mica:

Broken slack elevator cables telescope and oscillate wrongly like broken icebergs, sudden cracks on the skating pond at sunset and you’re in the middle, alone.

The Sloop:

Cool elevation and lowering of a ufo tractor beam + hints of dilithium warp core hum, broken and intensified with intermittent engine strain, and dense, foggy rumbling low wind (echos of the storm below).

“What’s that?” Cue: singular choral exhaled whisper of breath, undulates slightly as if from a tomb.

Radiant and glorious unknowable heavenly chorus doing vocal warm-ups, escalates + intensifies rhythmically as a swiftly beating heart.

A silent noticing*

(*composed but not heard)

“Whatever was making the sound has stopped making it”

Breathy elevating ever-narrowing tones.

“Oh No.”

Cetacean inquiry beacon with jagged tearror and reality-ripping edge.

Unknowable chorus plummets jaggedly, phasing in and out of reality with the buzz of time and space unzipping.

“Is this the Fold? How can this be?”

Choral pulses like the blood pounding in your ears as you fade from consciousness when in shock.

“Tranquility, Quiet, a growing silence”

The rumbling of eardrums deep under water as the last of your air bubbles up around you, under a turbulent ocean.

“This is nice” “Wow”

“The sloop lists”

A grey-green shimmer off burnished sheet metal.

A grinding of cracking ice.

“An enveloping summons, an invitation, an inevitability”

A long blue howl that seamlessly shifts between electric guitar wail, canid loneliness, and semi-human anguish that devolves into a fractal rumble.

“Slamming the dive lever”

Clanky brass ratcheting dive lever

“Erupts titanically into the space the just were.”

Smashing shatter ice breaking into 1000 pieces.

“The gigantic silhouette emits its call directly above”

Massive cavernous crocodilian grumbling easing into the questing blue howl.

“The sloop sweats ink from its crystal hull”

Horrible jagged zipper buzzing you hear when you are ill and your brain lags when processing sound.

“Eyes closing …. No, wait, don’t go”

Celestial chorus ringing + underwater rumble.

“They really are at peace”

Bright celestial glass harmonics + reality-consuming dark fractal rumblings.

“The blizzard still swirling”

A whisper of frosty Alpine wind.

“Waves of cascading energy like the focal point of a magnifying glass”

Sinister organ tones of persecution intensify.

“A sudden impact from below”

Reverberating shovel-hit anchor clang.

“The red dart of the stagecoach arcs in the air above them”

A suggestion of sliced and whirling helicopter blades.

Ship’s theme carillon:

Ostensibly electric guitar, but played in the manner of massive and ancient bronze discs engraved with arcane and ancient symbols, lasered with rainbow sheen.

“Shoot the tunnel and run … The wind-up of the ship’s dorsal laser…”

Mad whirring wind-up of an over-clocked mini cyclotron. Sharp rainbow pixel fragmentary blast.

[zkylearnstherope]

AvGeometry [An Analysis]

Disclaimer: This is a very short Analysis for Animation vs. Geometry by Alan Becker. I am not a geometer, (according to Merriam-Webster, a person who specializes in geometry) this purely for fun.

First of all, I will NOT explain everything in the video. I will just focus on answering a few questions to which I found the answer for. I also have some conclusions at the end.

I will leave the in-depth explanations of everything to those YouTubers. Also, I have linked my sources using hyperlinks.

So, let's get into it- shall we?

Let's start with-

Which version of TSC is the main character for this one?

If you read my AvPhysics Analysis, you would realize that I named the TSC with the cowboy hat TSC_0 of Universe D.

Since the start of the AvGeometry video, I immediately realized that this is NOT the same guy from AvMath, since he didn't show signs of aggressiveness with phi Φ.

He's more curious versus the guy in AvMath who attacked Euler's Identity immediately. This is also the same guy who spawned in AvPhysics, TSC_0.

I think this MC is a TSC from a different Universe. I will call him TSC_0 of the AvG Universe.

Now you might ask yourself, why did I gave him the 0 designation?

Because the video ended with another TSC knocking at the point.

Now, you might argue, that this is not a perfect loop because there is a line below the point. While the start of the video, doesn't have that line.

You are right. Again, if you read my AvPhysics Analysis, I said that the TSCs in there are not stuck in a time loop.

It's just an infinite cycle that happens to different versions of them. Everyone spends only a short amount of time inside the singularity.

So the next TSC to arrive will not be TSC_0 but TSC_1.

How did TSC and phi Φ beat that Boss?

To start, let's define a few things. Click the hyperlinks to view my source.

Polyhedron - is any three-dimensional figure with flat faces that are polygons. They intersect at straight, linear edges. The edges themselves intersect at points called vertices.

Tetrakis Hexahedron - It is a Catalan Solid with 24 isosceles triangle faces and 14 vertices. It is the d24 die. It is also a 3-dimensional polyhedron, not 4D.

Now, first of all, the Boss is not 4D. It is two Tetrakis Hexahedrons overlapping each other and rotates at different speeds.

Platonic Solids - a convex polyhedron that is regular, in the sense of a regular polygon. These are also 3D shapes. There are Five Platonic Solids

Note that this not the original image from the website, but I rearranged the rows to highlight my points. I also added the dice names, incase you're more familiar with DnD.

In fighting the Boss, TSC and phi Φ started with lines that has 2 vertices or points. Then they slowly moved to the Platonic Solids, eventually defeating the Boss using a dodecahedron.

The Boss had 14 vertices vs the dodecahedron that had 20.

Now, I can't really say why more vertices is superior. It could be structural integrity, or the idea that the universe's topology and shape, references the shape of dodecahedron.

Or, that the golden ratio is the length from the vertex to the center of the dodecahedron, and is also the ratio of the diagonal of the pentagonal face as demonstrated in the video.

The Hyperdodecahedron and Singularity

Hyperdodecahedron aka 120-cell is the convex regular 4-polytope (four-dimensional analogue of a Platonic solid.) It is the 4-dimensional analogue of the regular dodecahedron. It has 720 pentagonal faces and 600 vertices.

It's basically 4D dodecahedron.

According to ChatGPT, in higher-dimensional geometry and theoretical physics, singularities often refer to points or regions where certain physical quantities become infinite or undefined.

Here's how I see it. If that yellow dot is indeed a singularity, the only explanation I could come up with, is at some point, the hyperdodecahedron's infinite insides would shrink to a single point in its 4-dimensional space.

Fractals

Now I think these are fractals by I cannot be sure. Also, I couldn't get a definite answer as to how fractals would be relevant to singularities.

What I got from ChatGPT were related to the event horizon instead.

That irregularities of the event horizon might have fractal patterns or exhibit fractal characteristics in its shape when examined at a different (smaller) scale.

The visual and structural complexity of the event horizon evoke fractal-like qualities.

Now, this Analysis is a lot shorter, and also inconclusive. I did try my best. My brain is now mush.