(Image part of 50watt’s latest Space Teriyaki)
According to their cosmology, when the Creator (Toem) went to war against Entropy (Uhcf), she sweated profusely, and each of the pearls of her sweat dropped through nothingness.
Eventually, Toem vanquished Uhcf to the end of the road of each thing, and, before passing, instituted the rules for the operation and development of every thing and their collective system henceforth.
Each of the pearls of Toem’s sweat became the seed of a world, which flourished or froze or waited or wilted, and its skies, its mountains, its storms and its shadows sang a history going back to Toem’s battle with Uhcf.
The mission of the Clan of the Critics (El-Madi) is to travel the galaxies listening closely, finding for each of the worlds its song, so that the full history of Toem’s sacrifice might be learned by all.
The song of world 555 is made of the clicks, claps and pops of the phosphorescent exoskeleton of an arthropod species as it toils diligently under the permanent aurora, building graceful hive-palaces or glyphs representing the words of the lyrics of 555’s song.
Songs also made of the rumble of these hive-bergs as they slide through the world’s dense oceans, and of the cawing of the pelican-like birds whose migratory patterns that their tectonic odyssey dictates.
The El Madi have filed 555’s song under the genres: “Wholeness Juke”, “Innis mode complexity trip”, “G-fractal surfing”.
The Hidden Characters in Telequanta’s Metaverse aren’t so much the song that a planet sings, but the vibration emanating from a neon singularity that has absorbed the essential feeling of a zillion jams generated in tropical waterfronts all across the universe.
The simmer of possibility where the sea and the sky meet, the criminal flair of all harbours, the grace of the gradient, the hedonistic freedom of the tourist trap, all of these emotions shimmy in the user-friendly electro-beat, the blurry vocals and those drops blinding like paparazzi flashes, as the existential hero exits the fashion party, jumps in his sports car and, full of self-conscious emotion, accelerates towards that place where all the lines converge.
The El Madi have filed this under a genre best described by the hologram of a silhouette strutting with sexual confidence, a cheesy hint of fragility, something else, perhaps regret?