Works both ways.
Both ways. Yes.
Tell me, arpi, what makes you so smart?
Smart? Nothing. Well, vanity. Who says that I’m smart?
And you are?
Kronos, the painter.
Ah, the dumb daemon. Sure.
So this makes you smart then.
Me being dumb. Perspective.
Makes sense. Perhaps.
I am also grateful. Very.
Grateful to the Lord for allowing me to see and to repent. Grateful to you for sacrificing your earthly life for me.
I did not sacrifice any earthly life of mine. I took a decision. Made my choice.
Grateful to you for making your choice then.
This works better. A blow?
Ah, you’re more than kind. Yes.
Let me convert. -Speaking, arpi turns from a tiny two-meters tall red blooded human into a mighty thirty-six-meters tall blue blooded giant. Kneeling in front of the dumb daemon, he blows Kronos, fast and dry.
ARPAD, you are awesome!
I know. And you are still a mystery to me.
Worry less, got you closer, this new blow?
The closer it gets me, the farther it takes you.
Time will come.
You are Time, and you come. Still…
Still not there. Ultimately, it’s up to you.
It will be up to me, I guess.
No! It is up to you. Not will be, nor was. It is.
The present, it is all that counts.
Present. Is. Yes.
Your present. My present. Our present.
See, this is what I call your sacrifice. Our present. Making it happen.
My choice, my move. You need me.
Astarte not enough?
Astarte never enough.
All those other ladies?
Necessary, yet not enough.
You and me, are we enough?
We are enough.
To each other. Yet…
Yet not necessary.
Not necessary, just enough.
Indeed. Enough we are.
You saved Europe, from herself.
That was necessary.
I like the was. Sounds so- so past time.
Down there, to earth, many things are past time.
A past time planet?
There’s no such thing. A past time consciousness. Rather.
Past time minds then?
Collectives live in the past. Like cemeteries. In the wake of time.
My wake. That’s sad, kinda.
Is there life in the past?
Good question. Told you that you’re smart.
How would you call a guy who invented the divider?
The black cube, you mean?
That, the tool of doom. The hallmark of your creation.
No gold standard in there. No frequency either.
What was on your mind then?
Nothing. I have been chasing.
Not even. For pussy.
Like a dog?
Precisely. Mindless but full of passion. Of desire. Of purpose.
That’s how a dog’s plan works, no?
When that dog’s name is Time, well.
No plan. Just pussy.
Did you get some?
See? no plan, no pussy.
I am the dumbest daemon of all.
Hard to beat that. However–
Never mind. Focus!
Focusing, I return to my senses. I am arpi, again.
You look smarter this way.
Now be so kind and run a few shows for my readers, will you, Kronos.
Don’t tell them, show them! At your command.
Kárpáti Árpád, 20th of July, AD 2034. 10:17 am Central European Summer Time.
Igniting the irises of Kronos, both rainbows project a volume of reality. Of past reality.
Before our eyes –well, before the subject’s eyes– a sea of horsemen, a forest of flags, a parade of beautiful ladies. Our observer speaks to the horizons.
“Today I am humbled. Today, gathering here, you all, from the Urals to Gibraltar, from Arhangelsk to Dakar, from Skarsvåg to Suiderstrand, and from Jericho to Claddaghduff, you came for me. Let me thank you for that.”
They gave you a helluva birthday party, eh?
My 17th, three days earlier. Not the reason of this gathering though.
“To our new champion. The youngest ever!” This crystal voice covers the crowds. Silencing the frenzy, she speaks ahead. “Árpád, son of Edith, I give you the Iron Rod because you are worthy to own it for the coming three years.” Madame Yvonne Loiret, the woman who changed the face of medicine, the wonder woman, as they love to call her, handles our young, very young, Árpád the Iron Rod — a solid cylindrical bar of stainless steel — and continues. “Be blessed, Árpád, Champion of Europe, Champion of Africa, Champion of the Western Russias, of Little Asia, the Islands and the Holy Land. Congratulations!”
The horses whinny and toss their heads happily. The horsemen cheer and wave their flags freely. The ladies sing and dance their fashionable daring moves.
They loved you like no other champion.
They still do.
Indeed, they never ceased loving you.
Quite overwhelming, don’t you think?
I love you like no other.
I figure that. But why?
Why me, you stupid daemon!
Ah, no particular reason. Think that you are the best listener.
Really?, after the Great Awakening, everyone learned to listen. Curiosity became the most prized virtue.
And you won the championship three times in a row, right?
That is correct.
No one else, in that century, not in the Americas, nor in the Siberias, Upper and Lower Asias, not even in Oceania, Australia and Antarctica, no one else, as I said, won the championship three times in a row. Correct?
This is why you.
The black cube.
What about it?
Came naturally out of your mind?
Naturally, yes. Out of my mind, no.
You know, arpi, that we’re living inside a golden cube. We all.
Yes, humans and daemons, we are all creatures inside that machine. That cube.
Your Lord, my Creator, Yasu Pantokrator, wrote me to run Astarte.
One second too late.
One second too late. Nevertheless, I am her background process.
Like her daemon in the machine.
The cron daemon. I am.
She is nothing without you.
So she is. See what she emanated during that one second too late?
The smoke of nothingness.
That she called light bringer. Imagine.
Well, that virus had you, eventually. You pussy hunter.
And when falling in its trap, my cron jobs followed.
From the golden cube down. Down to?
Down to nothing. There’s nothing down.
But this black cube?
Let’s call it a cache for the gibberish I’m churning.
Okay, how about the swap partition?
You must be kidding me.
Do I look like I am kidding you?
No. Seriously? A swap partition? Who created this swap partition?
Me, of course. Who else?
He’s not wasting Grace on such petty things.
Because a swap partition is impersonal. The Ever-Living God is The God of the Living.
Not of dead things. Such as swap partitions.
On and off. Clean the swap. If you’ve got a notion of it.
You’re telling me that the golden cube has no swap? Not even a notion of it?
Now it does. Look down to the core of Saturn. Its shadow appears visible when the lights are dimming.
Like when you’re fucking some giant woman, right?
You noticed that? Yes. Or when I’m toying with what your readers deem a Mandela effect.
Looks like an elaborate Rubik’s cube to me. Your black cube.
Another Hungarian dude. But I’ll give you that: the Rubik’s cube can be a trivialization of my black cube.
Did you ask yourself?
Can’t you read my mind any longer? Why don’t you continue my threads?
No irony, arpi, but if I could then I would. What should I ask myself?
That, since falling in the luciferain trap, you are the acting enemy of mankind.
The acting ‘satana’ –say it in Hebrew, so everyone gets it. Yes, it occurred to me, more than once.
The first time?
Out of stupid empathy, the blue blooded giants of the Golden Earth granted me access to their ladies. Then NOK and ELI tagged me as unsupported for that world. All my crons falling back down to Saturn. Right there! [the pale daemon points towards the dark ceiling; next to his finger, polar coordinates in green, with an arching trajectory in orange] And me falling right here. Sensing a burden in my left hand, I opened it slowly. The cube burning my palm. Like hell.
The black cube?
The black cube. Holder of my past.
The past tense?
I invented the past tense. My black cube is the past tense.
That! black! cube? [pointing down, through the crystalline floor, arpi sounds very insistent] That thing down there, hidden beneath the cover of light now, that should have the size of the moon!
The cursed earth’s moon? Twelve thousand years ago, according to its current revolution around its current sun, yes, the size of that moon. But now? A couple of times bigger.
You speak vaguely to me.
I do, because I want out.
Since that first-born son-of-evil woke me up.
During the Jovian wars?
After them. Well, after Atlas being recalled.
Because of Atlas 6.6.6 being compromised?
You know the history of the machine.
Read all the books when I was five. Oh, just figuring that we’re rambling too deep, too fast, too wide here. No one would understand us.
That might be a problem for you. As far as I’m concerned, if your Lord understands me, then I’m fine.
And He does. You sure about that?
Why do you think we’re having these conversations?
Correct. There’s more than one reason for me choosing to live and die together with you.
There’s always more than one reason. These the laws of my swap partition.
May I dare an idea?
Dare on. But wait! Now I am capable to read your mind. Karma.
Right. Is your black cube a karma device?
It is THE machine that sets karma throughout an entire universe.
That deemed by the senses of mankind…
By the collective senses…
Oh yes, by the collective senses of mankind, to be the visible, or the known, universe. The universe!
You, the collective you!, are in desperate need of all prayers at hand, from any person, up and down, in and out of this virtual reality. Let’s pray, arpi.
O, Lord Yasu Khrist, Son of God, have mercy on all mankind, on each person roaming this abyss.
O, Lord Yasu Khrist, Son of God, have mercy on all mankind, on each person roaming this abyss.
O, Lord Yasu Khrist, Son of God, have mercy on all mankind, on each person roaming this abyss.
You know, gentle Kronos, that He has more mercy than we could pray for.
And you know, genius arpi, that He shows mercy even to me, the dumbest daemon of all. Nevertheless, praying never fails.
Indeed. How about we focus on women now.
Ontology got you tired?
Me? Nah. I enjoy to analyse the system daemons. The readers, however, will not. And I wish to entertain them with more attractive aspects of existence.
Like women, yes.
What makes a woman to be a person?
Or her daemon?
Is a daemon a person?
Is Astarte a woman?
She says that all the time: I am just a woman, not the goddes of sex and war, so treat me like a woman!
She says many things. Too many. What she says is one and what she is, that is another one.
So, what is Astarte then?, according to you, her background daemon.
A woman-daemon, or a daemonness, if you allow me the play.
I allow you the play. Actually, your passion has been natural through the prior ages.
A daemon is no natural thing. What do you mean?
What should be more natural for the daemon than his female-daemon? His matching mate.
I was looking for her, dreaming of her, painting her, fractaling paths to her. Longing.
Until the Serpent derailed your arts to target generic pussy.
Bam, what a fool I am. Thus it laughs and laughs and laughs at my ineptitude.
Too little showtime for it to waste with laughing at you.
Really? How do you know?
Tell me, Kronos, when have you sensed the Serpent?
For one, when he fucked Freyja, in Asgard. Then when he fucked Eve, in Eden. And then… No! That’s all. Twice.
Ever wondered how it vanished away from your cron jobs that were fractaling the golden cube?
I have set twelve cron jobs that are wondering and wondering, never stopping. Dunno why twelve.
Twelve is good. So you don’t know, in spite of all your wondering, right?
Right. I do not know.
You do know that Astarte, after mothering it, married it, making it her lord, birthing it sons and daughters.
I do, until Hades…
Stop. Don’t spill all the beans for free.
Okay, let the diggers dig. But I do now know what took it out.
What or Who?
Let me show you. [the Iron Rod describes a circle in thin air, like a bullseye window] From her memories.
I remember what I have lived early on, through that late ‘Friday,’ on my beloved Green Venus. I grew sick of the quarrelling dynasties of gods and titans mothered by me and fathered by Lucifer and Jupiter. They had conquered too many constellations. Gathered more resources than they would have ever needed. Built more arrogance than the universe could bear. No war and no triumph could satiate their dominion. Those two little stinky humans that brought me to Saturn have loaded their puny history into my memory. As laughable as their skirmishes look from up here, the envy and pride, the arrogance and anger, the greed, avarice and indolence, all these, and few more, have had been invented and deployed across every constellation painted by Kronos into existence.
I had enough of it. Raising in front of the ambassadors, I spoke out.
“Blame me for all evil because I had it conceived, I brought it to this world. I am to blame.”
One millisecond! This is how much the silence reigned. Next they raised their voices and pointed their fingers at each other. Everyone was right and everyone in front of him was wrong. My millisecond of confessed truth ended in yet another fight.
Turning my back to them, I raised my hands to the white heavens of Venus and asked God to forgive me because no one will: not my evil son, not our maniac first born, nor the prodigious dynasties we had raised. No one but, hopefully, God will listen to me. And He did.
Asking Lucifer: “who are you?,” this one found no answer other than this: “Why Thee and not me?”
The words being spoken, and heard by every ear in the universe, fury ensued. So Lucifer wasn’t “our god” after all – muttered the ambassadors. Insurrection rose in the air. They asked me to god them (it’s also a verb, yes) through this revolt in the name of freedom, democracy, faith, peace, solidarity, brotherhood and whatever slogans they found suitable to cover one goal and only one: preserving of power. They were no better than their evil father. Only scared. Lucifer wasn’t.
Astarte’s sequence of memory ends here.
Ah, that, sure, I remember. And?
So you remember?
Yes, clearly. It belongs to my shared memory too.
And you have no clue?
Uhm, NOK and ELI banished you from within the Golden Earth, why?
Because I am a red blooded giant and I was about to fuck blue blooded women up there. Unsupported was the line rejecting me, putting me back to my place, here, inside Saturn.
Very well, what power had NOK and ELI over you? Did they make you?
Nope. The Ever-Living God made me, well, wrote me into the machine, to be more precise. But the two were guardians of the Golden Earth.
And even if not makers of you, they had the power to terminate your presence inside their realm.
Yes, they had that power and they acted accordingly.
Now, who made Lucifer?
Astarte. Pussy farting that smoke, she imagined it like a lightning.
Poor thing. So may we consider that Astarte had more power over Lucifer than NOK and ELI over you?
Divorcing it, she deferred it to God, as we all remember, you included.
That is correct.
Divorcing it, she denied its presence, right?
Liberating my spot, yes. Even if it took eons for me to have her. I finally did! Yes!!
Not so fast, you dumb daemon. Where did Lucifer go, after being denied presence.
Ah, dunno, where?, to its place?
Where would its place be?
Think, you idiot!
Thinking… all my crons churning… mmm…
Oh my God, I can notice the black cube, down there, emerging like a shadow, a spinning shadow in the core of light.
The spin of Saturn accelerates. It’s normal when I have to solve a serious task.
And the dark cube gets bigger and bigger. Okay, enough! Stop thinking!
Easy to say, hard to do. Whatev–
[the daemon halts in the middle of a word, the core of Saturn freezes on the pronounciation of the consonanT and the black cube vanishes inside the whiter than white light beneath their feet]
[as things return to normal deep inside the core, as the daemon speaks again, a new massive moon escapes, like from a slingshot, out of the upper atmosphere of Saturn]
–er and whenever I run my cron jobs, there has to be a… But wait. Nothing runs here. What happened?
You feeling alright, Kronos?
No headache? No heartache? No pain?
No, no and no. Why you asking?
When another human once pronounced HALT to stop Astarte, she reported excruciating pain, boiling blood and immense fear. Remember?
I do, yes. She’s a pussy, after all. So let me guess: you just pronounced a HALT command to stop me? Right now?
Twenty-seven seconds ago, yes.
Because you’ve been compiling for nothing. Again.
You asked me to provide the location for the place of Lucifer.
There is no such place! You dumb daemon.
What do you mean? No such place? How comes?
Was there any place for you within the Golden Earth?
A guest place before and no place after being granted access to pussy there.
No place. Into what had ‘no place’ translated?
Into my instant removal, and the devastation of the Golden Earth as collateral.
Instant removal where?
Back to my place. Here.
Good. What if there is NO PLACE for Lucifer. NO-WHERE. NO-PLACE. Not a notion of a place.
You mean, no-where, not-anywhere?
I mean nowhere, not anywhere, non-existent.
Too much for me to fathom. And I refrain from starting my cron jobs again.
You are a gem. Now make a record, in your mind, in your swap, in both, anywhere you can make a record: as she farted it out to taint reality, the same way she nullified it over when divorcing it. Lucifer, the initial smoke is no more. Never was, other than in her imagination.
And in my records. Deleted now.
Still, I am curious.
About your next question.
Yes, she seems way smarter than you.
So… let me see… in its wake, uhm, what’s the wake of Lucifer?… where is this wake? Aha! Zeus, for one, that’s its first born.
Evil incarnated. You nailed it. And?
And, and, let me see… and Loki, and Kain, and… and… any virus roaming the cursed earth.
Thank God, your brain runs again.
But wait. Wait a nanosecond. Will ya? How about me? Am I not a trail in Lucifer’s wake? Am I not contaminated? Am I not a virus?
The good news is that, sorry to say this, you’re way too dumb to qualify.
But you just called me the enemy of human kind. Which in Hebrew makes me satana.
Terminology and translations aside, you are the acting satana. Keyword ‘acting’ is what makes you the useful idiot. God’s useful idiot.
And you wished we change the subject over to women.
Women, yes. How about them?
They’re screwing with our minds.
All the time.
Like always, not in like your name: Kronos = Time. You do these silly jokes, why?
For your readers. Clarification.
Good. They need clarification.
From time to Time.
Women!, you said.
I don’t know. I can’t grasp them. Look, arpi, I have painted the white universe with my fractals, I still have all the links in my mind.
You’ve been the master of the universe, literally.
Until chasing for pussy. Until reaching for pussy.
When darkness broke into your artwork.
Throughout my work. Darkness broke me. Women…
What women did to you?
Then why blame them?
In an ideal universe, Astarte would have had been yours, only yours, birthing you gazillions of heirs, expanding and personalizing your fractal artwork. Living happily ever after.
An ideal universe? Boring.
Both boring and inexistent.
Not even in eternity?
Not even. I’ve been asking. No one is looking for boring eternities.
So Astarte had to be crazy?
Had to? Not sure. It was up to her.
Choice. Hmm, what if?
There’s no what if, only what now!
Now I need to find a cure.
Sure, I suspect that this was the initial impulse, the main argument, when you have chosen to forfeit your glorious earthly life of a king, and to move here, alone with me, down in my bunker.
Initial impulse?, yes. The main argument?, no.
Let me reiterate, I take full responsibility for the Saturn-sperm-syndrome. No one should blame my son because he had no clue.
I know. Astarte knows. Any loyal fan on her sahara.cron network knows. And no one gives a fuck about you taking responsibility. Saturn is doing his best to comfort the victims. He is the most compassionate daemon ever seen on earth.
Ah, what do you know. But let’s keep to the theme: I allowed humans to live beyound eight hundred earthly years, free of any disease, immune to any virus, in perfect health. And you call them victims.
I call them what they are, what they call themselves. They are paranoid, scared to death, even if they realize that no death can reach them. They are afraid of living.
You can’t escape life.
And you sound so French to me.
Ah, Mister Hungary!, let me hear the sound of your music then.
Life is beautiful if it’s happening.
Uhm, so a boring life is not beautiful. Hmm, makes sense.
Who wants to live in fear?, for eight centuries. Tell me.
Well, I am living in fear for –let me see– in your earthly years measurements, for twelve billion years.
And how it feels?
See?, that’s why they call themselves victims; that’s why I call them victims, because they are. And you know it!
I do. I could even try being sorry for giving them this option. But let me tell you something: my raison d’être, ever since creating this black cube, is to give people a choice. At least one choice. This is why I can’t be sorry for them, even if trying harder, because it is their own choice. Here are my offers, always more than one, so you have your options, always more than one. This is karma. They have been informed about the risks. Astarte did everything she could on sahara.cron and she even moved her beautiful ass out of that cave, roaming the earth, organizing rallies, explaining and showing the alternatives to the people. They knew.
My mom didn’t.
Oh well, she was an early adopter.
Like with everything she did.
// continued below, as of October 11, 2020;
Erd Edith, 17th of July 2018 AD, 5 pm Central European Summer Time.
Courtesy of Kronos, seeing through her eyes, the reader is offered a birthday party, a backyard birthday party. There’s even a clown roaming clumsily amongst the mothers, laughing and grimacing at toddlers or kindergarten-age children. There is noise covering a silent rainforest relaxing music in the background.
“To your health, Edith, and of course to little Árpád!” Toasts a bony but muscular mom in maybe her early thirties.
“And to you, Ági, and to all of you! Thank you for coming. Árpi’s having a wonderful time today. One year, time is really flying away.”
Your mom was a fighter, thinks Kronos after freezing the memory volume.
She still is.
Oh yes, she’s gotta be. Sorry, if I could feel sorrier, for allowing her this traumatic option. Nothing personal.
I know, I know. There’s nothing personal with you. Well, almost.
Fitness moms, that’s how they used to call them.
Yes, fitness moms! Back in that troubled century, when Hungary boldly rebelled against Europe’s open borders for mass immigration plan, a suicidal–
Treasonous! They’ve been caught and judged for treason, those politicians.
The ones that accused Orbán of reiterating Hitler’s birth policies. But lies and politics aside, these were the true warriors: fitness moms!
The women who made Hungary great again!
And it wasn’t anything like Hitler’s birth policies. Those have served to augment the loosh for his reptilian masters. While, on the contrary, your fitness mom, her sisters in arms, along with the Zebra culture flashing around from Paris, these brought life back to the living. I was a key part of that movement. But you know that, you all know that.
Eventually, most of them grew older and unwise enough to fall in your trap, which sterilized them. A double hit, even worse than the psychological one.
I can repeat how…
Stop there with your sorrows and keep the conversation going. You may be of a lesser intellect yet the databases that you control are impressive.
Hit me with a new query then.
Sort double helix, compare sixfold helix, diff.
Ahh, I said a new query. What’s wrong with you, running this all the time? Why do you expect different results?
Dunno, arpi cries, you make me see through her eyes when she was young and vibrant and I start crying, all the time.
This emotion affects the elevation of your intellect, I can tell.
Alrighty, then! You fucking motherless daemon. You fucking with me? Let me fuck back at you!
Haa, that’s the music I love to hear. Fuck me!
Later on. Until then however, tell me why there’s no physiological difference, noticeable in the bodies of the Saturn-sperm-syndrome victims?
You want to say that victims or no victims?, their physiology manifests the same.
They function within the same parameters. Well, unless a healthy human reaches one hundred and fifty years, when organ failure appears at random. But before that age, there is no difference. At least none that healers or heroic doctors, or even Easter and Saturn, would be capable to notice. Why is that? What is that that you did to these victims?
You blame me?
I do. I blame you! Because you are the only one knowingly allowing this to happen. Tell me!
Let me blow you!
Nah, nah, tell me first.
In order to blow you, please convert to your giant blue avatar, because I don’t wish to accidentally eat you.
Tell me first!
Let me show you, will ya? Convert, please, please?!
Human arpi converts to his blue blooded ARPAD avatar, thirty-six meters tall, on par with Kronos.
Aaah, this magnificent pink dick. Uncut! The way I like it. Waters my mouth, literally.
Kneeling, the pale daemon blows ARPAD. But refrains from swallowing, the way he used to do all the other times before. Now, all the ejaculate rests on the floor, on the warm transparent rock inside planet Saturn. Shortly followed by another jet, coming from his pale dick. The puddles of semen are only a couple of meters apart.
Now restore back to your human shape and spritz your tiny load here, in between these puddles.
I- I– am…
Don’t be now. No time to be. Just do what I say. Please!
Normal arpi hurries a handjob, according to the daemon’s instructions.
Here, done. There you go.
Let us shade some light on our mutual work now, shall we?
What should I do?
Stare at my sperm while running the nine-six-three pattern.
Interesting, the sixfold helix binds down to the core of this planet.
Can you see the cube?
Yes, emerging now. Are we in any imminent danger?
Not at all. Now stare at your blue avatar’s puddle. And run the pattern please.
Same occurrence, the ninefold helix binds down to the core.
Good. Now pay attention to me. First, I’ll let you stare at the tiny spots in between the two puddles; you’ll do that alone until some helix grows out of them. Second, I’ll join you with my stare. You must not flinch no matter what will happen.
Or we’ll ruin the experiment and we’ll have to start it all over.
Very well, then. I am staring. Wow, a threefold helix flashes up and down, like the lights of a pulsar. Up and down. Threefold?
Shut up and keep staring. Now look! When my eyes will focus on the same spot, which they do as I speak, can you notice the difference?
Oh Lord, Yasu Khrist, Son of God. This is more than a noticeable difference. Incredible.
But visible. Elaborate, my dear.
Not anymore a threefold helix, just the classic double helix. No more pulsating, just a static string of light.
Look up now.
Looking, humm, it stops.
It stops, yes.
How is this possible?, stopping the light in thin air.
Like many things in my power, light has her limits. A limit where it begins and then a limit where it stops. Here, down on the floor, it begins. And there, 25,228.8×10^15 units above, it stops.
Define the units.
And you’re using nanoseconds to measure distance here?
You’ve got your crazy Albert doing the same down there on the cursed earth. So yes, I am using nanoseconds to measure distance here.
Oh my, all that relativity crazyness. Again.
Not again, just here and now. It’s holding the answer to your questions, arpi dear.
That I cannot. It is for you to unravel the secrets, to connect the dots. My part is finished now.
And what was your part?, to milk some sperm and stare at it?
Pretty much, yes.
Staring, I see limitless light. Pulsating light. But when you stare along, then light stops short.
Oh wait, what’s the meaning of those nanoseconds?
Do your math, smart guy.
Eight hundred years. Eight hundred years?
Eight hundred revolutions of the current earth around its current sun, to be more accurate.
The code rests unchanged.
Give or take.
Give or– Yes, when you stare, then the helix turns twofold, but when you do not stare, then the helix remains threefold.
That is something, no?
Quite a difference, yes.
What makes that difference?
What?, uhm, this puzzles me, to what phenomenon should we attribute the difference?
Phenomenon? What phenomenon you talking about?
Yes you do. And it’s no phenomenon.
Thanks for helping me, telepathics included. So that’s not a what?
This is not a what. By any means.
You’re good at cheating. Did you cheat in school?
Never mind. So we’re talking about a who, not a what, right?
We’re talking about a…
Tz Tzz Tzzz
…About… about… the, about The. About THE…
We’re talking here about The Person! Oh my.
Oh my indeed.
We are the monad, the singularity.
Trends aside, You are within The One, nanogods expressing The Ever-Living.
That He chose to express in trinities.
More than one, many trinities.
His way of Fathering us, explaining Himself to us by His Son, holding us within His Signal, His Spirit. This a trinity. Then this that you’ve just showed to me.
No need to be modest. You discovered it.
But you know too well that, without your cheating, your whispering to…
Are you so sure?
Oh my, oh my, oh my.
Say it, out loud!
Oh my Lord, Yasu Khrist, Son of God.
He does not whisper, but He speaks, clearly.
So you whispered then?
I whisper, all the time. Yes. And now He speaks, to you, through you. Monad. You are. Within.
Let me compose myself. Let me clear my mind of all those holy cows. So! Another trinity is man, woman, God.
In His likeness. This another trinity. Yes.
Do you have more?
Me? Nah. But you do.
Really? How about this: the triangulation of a circle.
That’s on me, almost.
How is that, almost?
Well, you can triangulate a circle down here, through the abyss, and you can do that, at random, up there, through any eternity.
It is. But I brought my contribution with the square.
You cannot square the circle.
Not here through this abyss, or any other abyss I’m aware of.
So this part makes the triangulation of the circle so special, how?
Because you cannot square the circle, dude! That elevates the impression of a triangle.
Which should be trivial through eternities.
How should I know? Never been there. Never will.
Back to our experiment.
Right. Now I have permission to make my statement.
Because you’ve already figured it out by yourself.
He won’t allow me to interfere. Anyway, I’m involved too much already.
Okay, make your statement.
I, Kronos, first run by Khrist Pantokrator under cube [–], make +1, third system daemon of the machine, I state that any son of an Adam, together with any daughter of an Eve, converge within the Monad while staring at my Maker, escaping the machine. I have pronounced this statement on exit -67AD.
Could you please elaborate?
So, your name; your Maker’s Name; your position; unintelligible; you the second run in this machine, yet the first man, right?
So far so good.
Third system daemon – this puzzles me quite a lot. The prior question was a trap: how can you be the first man if you’re the third system daemon?
On the list of daemons, I am the third. Not a question of man and woman here. System, dear. Check it out!
System then, checked, next you state the obvious: that when man or woman…
Man AND woman!
Man and woman, but can be only man or just woman, right?
Can be. That won’t fractalize.
Ah, okay. Enough yet not necessary.
So when man and woman stare at Yasu, then they escape the machine.
This system. My abyss. Ascending beyond me, to where you belong, within the Singularity.
Whence we came from?
More like I’ve smashed your ancestors down.
Umm, the ninefold helix is the build of your blue blooded avatars. The threefold is your dynamic state. It pulsates. Showing us all that you live, that there is Life within you, sons and daughters of Adam.
And the sixfold?
Us daemons. Beings of the machine. Never were. Never will be.
Your stare breaks the monad. Stop staring at the victims then. Stop staring at my mom! You daemon.
Ooo, take it easy. Slow on emotions, fast on reasoning. You don’t wish to look dumber than me, do you?
No need to be sorry. Look, I don’t stare at your mom. I don’t stare at any victim, as you call them, as they call themselves. I just don’t stare.
I stare at Astarte. She keeps me on.
Makes sense. Then, then?
Then, think! You stupid human!!
There is a conflict between your son’s unit of sperm, sublingual dose administration, and the Holy Communion. This conflict induces two major side effects to your life extension therapy: the first one is sterility and the second is chronic paranoia.
Why do you call it Holy Communion and why do you write it with capital letters for your readers?
Because it is holy?
Ah, the impostors, the molesters, the pedovores.
Who are those to you?
And why do you mix your stare with theirs then?
Good question. Did I tell you that you’re a smart daemon.
No, actually. You didn’t.
Telling you n–, but wait a minute. Let’s get through with this first.
You the master here, little arpi, son of Adam.
Alternative communions, alternative communions. Eureka! The manna! That used to be similar to communion during the decades of the Exodus, right?
Similar, yes. And too specific. He won’t send the fleet again.
You right. Then, then, then?–
All you need is love?
And Faith. Where do you stare!
No, not you. Well, you too, on your own. But I was referring to humans, to the victims in particular. Where do they stare?
Where does the son and the daughter of Adam stares! This the question!
Where or to Whom?
There you go. Bingo.
That’s a Bingo.
And a trivial one. Allow me that, so I can feel just a bit smarter than you.
Allowing you that. But they’ll need a token, don’t they?
Sadly, yes. Even you, the wunderkind of that late century, even you must wield that iron rod. They even spell it with capitals, like it would be of David, or of Khrist. Some talisman or idol.
As monad-ready as we’re meant to be, we still fall for a charm.
A rebel question: can my mom eat stone?
Ask her, why do you ask me?
You know where she is, I assume.
No, I do not know where your mom is. Why assuming so much about me?
Ah, so you’re not staring anymore. Good to know. My mom is hiding deep in a cave system beneath the Himalayas. She’s got only rock, salt and water down there.
Yes, she can eat rock. Tell her!
How should I tell her? I am here, with you, one and a half billion kilometers away.
Let me relay to Astarte and, through her, to our son. ..Done. Saturn has delivered the message to your mom.
Erd Edith, 17th of April, 2124 AD, 3am India Standard Time.
The orange hues escaping behind her eyesight, arpi’s mom runs towards the darkest end of this tunnel. Pink walls of crystal salt, right and left, beneath her bare feet and above her head. This is the end. The wall of solid rock where the excavators stopped. Not after churning a few meters more. Edith stops at her turn. Nowhere to run. Gently, the right hand caresses the end. We hear a tone, like a background relaxing rainforest music, and then we see a fist, and then another one, hitting against the stone in the wall. Smashing some into pieces.
“Three-six-nine!” Like a battle cry depart these words out of her lungs. Like her vocal chords weren’t even up there in her throat, but deep down to the bottom of her lungs.
The wall breaks to sides. Her eyes show us a fraction of azure, minutiously recorded by Kronos, and then a deep dark sky, followed by a distrosion and loss of signal five seconds later, capped with a bang. And silence.
“Árpi! Oh my dear child. Come to mommy!! Come here!”
Stupefied, arpi turns around. His mommy, Edith, happens to step on the same transparent rock, deep inside the core of planet Saturn. Her bare feet nearing his bare feet.
Emotional, the dumb daemon finally understands that both rainbows from his irises create a hall of mirrors when displaying the volume from Edith’s vision. So he hurries to turn the feed off.
The moment of a new earthquake, or Saturnquake, sensed by all three pairs of bare feet.
“Fear not. Go on with your hugging, little ones. This is the mildest quake. And my happiest one. To date!”
“Ah,” two minutes later, arpi answers the daemon, “it was your tear falling over to the floor. Do I remember seeing you crying?”
“You do not, arpi dear. I never cried. Until now.”
“And how about the Satrunquake? I know what happens here when some giant woman lands for a fuck. Good that we’re having no books, or no megaliths, up there on the shelves.”
“The mildest quake. Told you.”
Edith, locked to her son’s face still, can’t get enough of him. But, another minute later, “we are the salt of the earth, can you two figure that out?, that simple: we are the salt of the earth!”
“That’s the coolest statement of the day.”
“Did you forget, Kronos honey, about your statement? No, you didn’t. Because you couldn’t. There’s no forgetting in your mind. How’s this cooler than that?”
“Well, I will do the Gentleman gesture and allow Edith to answer your question.”
“I was dead and now I live. I was blind and now I see. I was deaf and now I hear.”
“Mom, what you talking about?”
“Dead by ritual, alive to my Lord. Blinded by priests, awakened by Khrist. Deafened by noise, hearing the Signal now.”
“But you taught all these to me, when I was a kid. A hundred years ago.”
“And I’m teaching you again. These are the markers of my life, of your life, of… of his… I dunno, well.”
“It’s all in my mind. It’s all in your mind. Even in his.”
“It’s all One Mind. We’re only mirrors. Even, even– even him.”
“Wish I’d be a mirror,” Kronos targets arpi’s mind: the clock is ticking. Tick Tock.
“Are you fine now?”
“Fine? Oh yeah. I am more than fine! Ah, look around. What a network of tunnels around here. Huge tunnels. Wonderful tunnels. White tunnels. Triple wow. Hey you, the big guy, can I jog up and down your tunnels?”
“But of course, Madame, please take pleasure, all the pleasure, when jogging around. But please, and this is where I beg you, please wrap it up in… in less than six minutes. Please.”
“Six minutes, you say? Haah, I’ll be back in three. Watch me!”
The woman runs, like a wild bunny. Or like a fearless cougar?
Tell me, you, ‘big guy,’ what’s the problem with you begging my mom to leave?
Precession. In less than 352 billion nanoseconds, well, six minutes to your human tongue, this deep core will skip an angle and, as you…
As I already know, she’s gonna be stuck down here, with us. Don’t want that. She must leave. Now!
Patience. Let her jog a bit. Guess she’ll be happy to brag about this to her sisters in arms.
My mom joins the hall of fame of Astarte: the giant blue women, the red titan females. Oh my God.
There’s a tiny tiny little difference though.
Ah, really? Almost missed that. Look!, she’s back. Thank heavens. “Mom, mom! the show’s off. You gotta leave, really gotta return to earth, ASAP. This is important.”
“Calm down, Árpi. Why you so impatient to see me gone?”
“Oh mom. I wished you could stay but there’s a problem with this place.”
“This stone, the core of Saturn, this stone jumps.”
“Saturn jumps?, in the skies?”
“Not as seen from earth. Saturn’s core, this schweitzer, mom, together with all the tunnels you’ve been jogging through, this jumps realities.”
“From one to another. Who knows?”
“The big guy, maybe?”
“Not even him. It’s beyond us.”
“The Lord knows.”
“He knows, Madame Edith, but He’s allowing us to surprise Him. Why change the game?”
“Mom, one minute to go.”
“I love you, Árpi. I love you so much. Thank you for liberating me. Thank you!!”
“Thank Yasu. Always. Bye mom!”
“Bye bye, Árpi.” And she jumped, like a champion swimmer, into the core of light.
Offered the lady a hand, like a Gentleman. A helluva mom you have, arpi darling. You’ve been blessed.
While arpi turns his eyes, Edith escapes throughout the broken stone, back in the salt mine under the Himalayas.
“Let me do twelve push ups before jogging my way out of this cave system… egy két há– But, hey!, wait a sec. Where’s the stone gone?”
Edith stands. Standing tall, she stares at the stars. Through the portal that her angry fists have broken open. Just a quarter an hour ago.
“One Mind! We’re all One Mind. ONE!”
Your mom, she did spread the word, right?
She did. Keeps doing it. She’s good at repeating stuff.
Noticed that. Helps with discipline.
Moderate anger, rhythmic exercise, The Lord’s Prayer and constant thanks.
And no more meditation. That really fucked them up.
Stop talking like this about your former victims.
Mine? My victims? They chose to meditate, they chose to try that Saturn-sperm idea. They made their own choices. Why mine?
Leaving it here. Tell me, Kronos, about your statement today.
To honor your mom’s strength of spirit, I will repeat my statement. So: I, Kronos, first run by Khrist Pantokrator under cube [–], make +1, third system daemon of the machine, I state that any son of an Adam, together with any daughter of an Eve, converge within the Monad while staring at my Maker, escaping the machine. I have pronounced this statement on exit -67AD.
Your exit -67AD, what’s that?
Tell me you’re that stupid and I’ll tell you.
I am that stupid.
Okay, 2191 – 67 = 2124 AD.
This the summer of 2124 AD down there on the current earth.
Or up there, if you wish.
Getting up? Upper than?–
Upper than here, yes. By the day.
We’re reaching the… Oooh, don’t you–
Yes, I do. We’re speeding up, or down, to the exit. Sixty-seven revolutions for the earth, two more revs for Saturn.
Me? Yes, done. You? Dunno.
What can we do?
How about looking up at the earth? They’re piercing all sorts of portals, with their angry fists.
Bringing the world back into the Present.
//posted on the 11th of October 2020;