The blog infrastructure went feral on us as we were typing this evening, so you are only getting one song this time. But it should be enough.
A behemoth has crashed against the forgotten shores over which our Fortress of Solitude rises with its jagged edges and maddening spires. We stare at it grimly from our balcony, not down but up such is the magnitude of the dead beast marooned in our land.
Because it is dead, or is it not?
It surely reeks of death, more than death, it reeks of dark spaces where death is alien because life never belonged there in the first place, of dark spaces violated by unholy pilgrims of hallucinated provenance.
But if it is dead, then it must have been alive once, for isn’t its vast hulk tattooed with scars begotten by cruel claws, and doesn’t blood spill from its wounds viscous like the oil that fuels the most grotesque nightmares?
Our best scanners have told us nothing about its contents, so we prepare for exploration. We toil in our workshop sharpening our blades and coating our breastplates with alkali solutions, scratching exes in the tips of our munitions.
Because if it is dead, then there must be something still alive inside it, we can hear it. Perhaps stellar Noahs clad in obsolete spacesuits, kidnapped from the dark side of the moon. Or monstrous parasites gorging on its decaying digestive system, one designed to break down the emptiness of the void into its quantum constituents. A subsonic drone infiltrates our alcoves in the darkest night, the silence is broken by shrieks as abnormal lightning is vomited by a limpid sky into the periphery of the carcass, like timid carrion birds scared of disturbing the lumbering predator.
The full moon won’t say.
Or maybe the sounds are but the snoring and wheezing of the tired traveller resting after a long journey, dreaming of the moment when it awakes to behold its new dominion.
We won’t await until then to find out. We head down the crystal staircase and across the cancerous tongue of sand, over the burning oil. And into the belly of the beast.
Now we are inside.
Watch your corners.
Being the pure and proficient paladins that we are, we got first dibs on it last week. Since then we have arisen a handful of levels in the staircase towards illumination. Now this is a mother of an A.L.B.U.M. (as in A Luminiscent Beckoning Umbran Magick) that needs to be confronted in its transfixing totality.
We pity you who will have to await for it, because by the time it starts evolving you, we will have already become singularity bitches awaiting to lash you around with mono-filament whips, alas, under the command of Teeth of the Sea themselves who, by virtue of having produced the conduit in the first place, will have reached the state of G.O.D.S. (Grooving Of Debauched Sanctity). Darn, we voted for Kodos!
But being the charitable dudes that we are, we are leaving you today with a morsel off it, and one bound to endow you at the very least with mild Telekinetic powers. Not least because it sounds like Ennio Morricone hooking up with Hawkwind to soundtrack the fall of Atlantida as it happened, hovering over the fierce waves while the future ghost of Olaf Stapledon stares with a benevolent smile from the magenta clouds above, and the illuminati drop from their golden towers into the jaws of the antediluvian sharks below. It is heavy like that.