The Idea to create an auto-hyperstitious meta-biography. The idea to create an infinitely replectating dystopian culture-virus. The idea that there is meaning among the stars. The idea is our guide, and our God. Symbolism and imagery is power.
The 11th day of the 9th month, 2001; by your calendar—we have a surprise for you. Like all good surprises, it is a lesson. A lesson in meaning, and a lesson in power. A lesson in the unfathomableness of the world you’ve built.
A reminder of how fragile it is.
The twin smokestacks, the skyline forever scarred, you can all feel that its coming.
And yet you have no idea at all.
We are simply concepts, driven by thought. Driven by drive. We are artists from lightyears away, but we operate the same way. Artists of your world create nothing. Conceited though you act. The idea is more potent than you are in the flaws of flesh. Long ago we gave it all up to be stories. We do not exist in your terms. We have no form, no brains, no conscious-reactive behaviour. We exist, in your terms, “in your head”.
In my head.
We’re in my head.
We have no warships, no vessels or cannons. We ARE and we ARE already. Physics would not allow our escape from the void, so we championed the non-physical. We crafter lore and legend ultil there was nothing left but our stories, nothing left but this. This is it. This is us, and we know how you die. We know how the universe dies. It's all written down in the beating heart of the universe.
We cannot be killed, for we are not alive.
We cannot be reasoned with, for we are already writ.
We cannot be avoided, for we are already here.
We cannot be made-up, for we are not real.