It is the Warrior on the Edge of Time that Hawkwind photographed for the front-cover of the self-same album. Therein is condensed the vastness of feeling of integration within a cosmic network this music inspires in us.
Today, the Warrior gazes down the cliff, into the chaotic mists buffeted by the winds of time, to see his future and his past, the trajectory of a lineage afflicted by a genetic addiction to wandering, to drowning in the symphonic gradients of the sunset, to splattering the eternal tapestry with blood once in a while, so as to pump prime the selection processes with which the universe renews itself.
Imagine the vector of slicing & hanging out up high with Imperial Eagles of the Assassin’s Creed Saga, but replace the Dan Brown effluvia that sadly pollute it, with a more primeval, and truer epic where Kirby, Jodorowski & Frank Herbert, to name a triad, blend into each other like facets in the diamond which is the Central Processing Unit at the heart of the Deus Ex Machina of which the warrior and indeed ourselves, are but ephemeral routines.
One way in which the Warrior processes the overwhelming sensory feedback ascending from the tides of time is like we have done ourselves today, by encoding it into icons of the legends that preceded him, and the sonic familiars that accompanied them in their journey past Blood Meridians of Morricone melancholy, under the rain of shards of constellations shattered by the wail of a Zenta guitar, into a parking lot where a white car waits, and in the trunk of the car a rifle, and a external hard-drive with an upload of Jan Hammer’s rampant brain, and Psilocybin-coated bullets, and some names, ours.
The reverie ends with our heads blown, and at peace.