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Self-portrait #46
Åttiosextusenfyrahundra

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

The situations have changed. Drastically. Maybe if I was devotionally recalling the same event on one such night five months, maybe it would be slightly different. Maybe instead of paranoia-sheltering I would engage in the memory in a analytic-poetic way. As such the recollections of discrete details in the whole arc would manifest in the brain differently. Indeed in the memory, as I walked in the rain towards Les huits without a poncho, I was in a crestfallen mood. Nothing disruptive. Not a giant horn that tears your eardrums apart. But a faint low pitch pulse that is in your wake. It does not bother you when you are tying to work. Walk. Eat. Sleep. But in every case, you are aware of the sound. In that state, the sight of the fire in the 57th story indeed brought me a cathatric joy. I was excited to see the system fail for once. This is the factual emotion of the memory at that particular time of me walking in the streets and spotting the fire. But in the memory, it has become akin to something that holds the truth of the emotion, yet gives the bearer of the memory a scope to retrofit it in the hindsight. The recaller now thinks why he felt that away and what has changed since and what not. If he is in a good mood at the time of recalling, he would dismiss it as juvenile rebellion. Maybe he would think, I still feel the same. But if the same memory happens to be recalled at the time of a paranoid state, as I am right now at 3AM here in Gauntville, a foreign city, then the way the memory is extracted from the factual truth and becomes framed by the bearer's mental state during recollection, changes quite a bit from the happy or angered mind. Or otherwise. It appears there's a bias-affect of the conscious mind on the subconscious one. Naturally. And because the memories surrounding the bar event— particularly the fire and the couple on the street and leaving the bar, back to a new instance of rain, are only recalled anecdotally. The brain did not retain, for lack of a better term, secondary details on the nature of the other events. In the exact moment, as I was walking in the rain after work. Just another mundane day. But in a way, it was slightly different than usual. I was notified formally by the board regarding my promotion. I should have been proud of something. I guess pride in self-competence was expected, normally, from someone in my position: corporate field is a cutthroat business. On the surface, it meant that I, as a relatively newcomer in one of the leading corporations in all of the NWF, made exceptional strides on the corporate ladder. You peel off the superficial and you see: you have also made new enemies, of both simply envious and of Machiavellian nature. As you go up the ranks, the politics of the office become more and more unavoidable. And over the years, when you are disillusioned with it all, your self-loathing regarding the growing degree of your involvement in this system' survival becomes more and more impenetrable. You cannot penetrate the loathe and its lather on holographic mirrors that says: "this man works for Datamangle Inc." and override it with the illusion that says: "this man has passion and ambition in his field". Because it's clear as the fucking daylight. 24 years later, my brain doesn't immediately recall the state of mind at that exact moment on the street, unsatisfied with the satisfaction theoretically posed to be exhilarating. Distinctly undistinctful. Like former war veterans who have been habitualised into a quiet domestic life for decades since. If the veteran suffered monumental moments of horror or glory, that specific moment would be kept in his memory most distinctly. The surrounding events, pre or post, do not have any less importance, since both time and the way recollection works is continuous, not discrete. Yet his brain, decades later, allow him only the most memorable, the others have become spectral. Just like his wartime companions, who were once the matter of life and death, individual identity and collective consciousness, but now have relocated to domestic life in other parts of the nation, some had perished on the battlefield. Some martyred themselves during decisive moments. Decades later, the veteran remembers the details of his morning routine better than his active days in the battlefield. He knows when to wake up every day, how to go about his routine. How to adjust to the peace, apparently a statement of his disengagement from direct role in his occupation, in the nowfound honour and dignity as a veteran. Some have come to hate war now. Not just some, a lot of them share that sentiment. But one day, when flashbacks of the most remembered, and relevantly the most unforgettable events of his active days occur in one seemingly mundane day in his life. All goes out in a flash. The moment or the chain of moments when recalled decades later, when he's comfortably adjusted to a new life, it becomes less a memory and more a haunting apparition. Then the surrounding moments of the summit-moment becomes recalled with wavering accuracy and the summit-moment becomes elaborately remembered to the point of anxiety and disorientation. Pride. Righteousness. Fear. Regret...

Funtitled #44
Animal Affirm I / Pathfinding

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

It's also possible that she's simply sitting here, in the bar counter. Minding no one's business. Enjoying her drink. And her internal monologue. I wonder how hers is like compared to mine? There's one thing that will mystify, no matter how much we know of a person. Hypothetically, if every minute detail. That's impossible. Even an identical twin could possibly claim to know every crooks and crabbies of his conjugate other. But if my some miracle, a person comes to know every detail about someone, whether through psychological rapport or some kind of consciousness hacking module. Even in that case, it would remain impossible to know how others glide through their hidden soliloquy, in their own ashen lanes. There's not just the matter of speed and intensities. Only constant is that: there's a lane. The idea of a lane. On which the bearer's thoughts pass in varying permutations. Sometimes they are on promenade. Sometimes running. Sometimes a storm. Seismic cracks. Beyond that idea of the lane and all the speeds and intensities, there's also the matter of the idea of lane having different contexts based on the bearer's mind. It's a given fact that everyone is different. That's not mystifying. It's the epistemic limit of knowing how the person's soul, not the neurotransmitters or hormone fluctuations, but the incalculable, unquantifiable and unprovable soul; the question is on the epistemic limit behind discerning how one's soul connect to their bodies. But the bearer of the soul does not need to be aware of its specific designs and descriptions in order to embark on the lane the soul has dripped over his internal world, coloured of unknowingly spilt palette. When he was a baby he didn't know about the specifics whatsoever. He was imitating others. Responding to only the immediate stimuli. Exhibiting traits of the most tangible emotions. Suddenly at one point, the point which varies dramatically from person to person, he is aware of the traits that comprise his being. And becomes aware of continually developing yet nonlinear personal history. The even more nonlinear process of remembrance. He doesn't realise the inscrutable epistemic and mnemonic vacuum from the time before functional consciousness. Yet it does not distract him from his identity at all. The memories are ingrained. Then he goes on to gather more memories and progressively through time, the memories, while doesn't regress entirely to the vacuum of childhood, but more associative than descriptive. A person who relinquishes more personal history to the tides of time does not necessarily know himself less. What do I know of this woman now as I am looking back on this specific incident 24 years later. Now I'm here, it's past 3AM, at Gauntville. Looking back on an 24 year old incident. My memories of on the surrounding events have become associative with some critical descriptions. For instance, there was indeed a fire on the way towards Les huits. But most of the details, apart from the meeting with the woman has become only spectrally tangible. The physicality of the details, of the streets and its people and my own wandering thoughts. At 27, I was in no less crisis than I am at now. Maybe it's only the circumstances that bears the most importance than the severity of the problem itself... By 27, my ideological crisis from college years had faded away and replaced with an existential one and it's the same that persists to this day. Over the years, I mustered control over it and was able to flourish in my career. Up until my resignation from Datamangle three months ago, I was one of the key people in cybernetics division of the corporation. 

Funtitled #43
Kleptocratic Spectra II / Lumen Poachers Inc.

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

"Excuse me, may I have a bottle of Ringinrunt?", I asked the bartender. I was calculating my next decision as the bartender offered me a pleasant smile and nod and went to search for the luxury vodka in the premium cabinet. The woman was completely oblivious of this interaction. I was only one stool away from her. I stood in front the stool, there was another empty stool beside it and the immediate next was the one she was occupying. She was completely immersed in her activity, there was not much: she was taking sips from her small yet exquisite bottle. I'm not familiar with the brand, my best bet is that's a champagne. That's so indicative of a surveillance agent. Only in terms of expense and sophistication though. From what I know from my observations at Datamangle, surveillance agents typically favour something stronger within same opulence however. I cannot really fault them though. I myself am guilty of having a taste for sophisticated alcohol. But as rare as the sight is, in the case of Datamangle surveillance agents drinking outside of their private spaces, they would have preferred something far more modernistic. That's not a rigid rule but a speculative stereotype backed up empirical evidence. They would pick The Gartié. Somnohuils. Les Richardien. Not really Les huits. Yet this woman, a surveillance agent, is here. And she's drinking wine. Although she appears to be enjoying the wine in solitude, I as an insider may have a solid guess that she's doing something related to the central matrix, even though she appears to be off-duty from the attire. Disguised operation? Eh, then she wouldn't keep the insignia visible. But as a Datamangle insider, I still have a solid guess that she's manuevering the Ontopologix computer. Back in old world, computers used were widely physical units. The operators would connect and use them while being completely detached from systemwise; the computer was a disparate entity with its artificial logic systems which the user utilised in a standalone way. The old world had already developed the internal computer cybernetics near the time of the third great war and while the technology was not exactly in the prototype phase, it was expensive enough to be outside of the experiencibility of the common market. And the economic meltdown across the world during the final years of the third great war had an adverse effect on both its availability and affordability. In the new world, personal computers are widely integrated as cybernetic modules. Most of the use citizens use the personal computers inside themselves, anywhere anytime. And the interface is entirely invisible on the outside and instead internally visualised to the user natively. However, in many specialised cases, the use of external computer systems are common, although the dependency for physical spaces have been negated by projected holographic controls which are visualised externally, typically on a compatible surface. However, throughout the New World Federation, agents tasked with central matrix maintenance were using a custom and entirely non-consumer variant of computer which was a melding of internal computer module and external holographic controls. The variant of this specific type of computer developed by Datamangle Inc is given the name the Ontopologix. And it is completely off-limits to anyone not trusted with the central matrix. And important thing is, every corporation that are tasked with central matrix maintenance have developed their own variants of the matrix-tethered computers and keep their own variants exclusive to themselves. It is because the central authority has collaborated with the corporations to look after specific, discrete aspects of the central matrix that are unique to each corporation. The Ontopologix, developed by Datamangle Surveillance Inc. to carry out their part in the central matrix maintenance have specific functions unaccessible by other corporations tasked with the matrix. So the only people in Tatterstown with access to the cutting-edge technology of the Ontopologix are the operatives of Datamangle Surveillance branch. All the special matrix-attached computers are different but they have some similarities as well. One thing that is common is that even though the holographic controls are externally projected in the physical world, the wavelength and frequency band it uses are completely invisible and undetectable by anyone other than another bearer of the Ontopologix, or the corporation-specific equivalent. I cannot see the holographic controls of the Ontopologix as it was intended, but by the courtesy of being an insider I know the general notion of the technology even though I have no access to it whatsoever.

Funtitled #42
Nachtstücke Mk. 2 V / Wahre politische Macht kommt vom Ende eines Dreizacks

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

When I was out in the streets in its artificial rain just minutes ago, I was walking with complete spatial awareness yet drenched within as well, in thoughts. Now it's been about... The internal AI says 11 minutes since I have been inside the bar. I've been in thoughts about the surveillance agent so deeply that I forgot about my apparent purpose here. Yes, I still haven't ordered a drink. But it's a perfect excuse to get up from the table here and relocate to the bar counter. I get up and move towards her slowly, taking calm steps so as not to alarm her. Les huits might be modeled after old world inn but aside from the obligatory automated doors, it has rather strict discipline protocols. Excessive noise were not tolerated well so those who are caught in the dilemma of wanting to extreme-drink yet cannot hold the drunkenness in might have to invest in inebriation control module so as not to cause disruption to peace and strike up a hefty amount of fine. Drunken brawls could even lead to prolonged stay at one of Tatterstown's correctional facilities depending on the degree of severity. One did not have to cast a quarter of their lifetime for unable to keep drunken violence in check but it would be surely a lot when compared to old world's treatment of the issue regardless of period. Maybe drunken brawls even considered something trivial per old world standards. What does it matter now? The bar was basked in peaceful celebratory atmosphere instead of chaotic when I made my way towards her.

Funtitled #41
In memoriam Clayton Counts & For Neil Keener Mk. 2 VI / He is Not Dead but Sleepeth II

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

And the corporates carry out the crucible of superiority amongst themselves and the fight for its possession continues as usual. But this society knows. That the corporates are the ruling class. Both cybernetics engineers and surveillance agents are in the same class of the society. The surveillance people know things we don't know. And thus, even if interactions between cybernetics people and surveillance people were rare outside of projects, they were often made by the surveillance agents' demeanour into the impression that: "we are colleagues within the same corporation. Thanks for asking about my well-being and I hope you too are at the summit of well-being. I'm afraid we don't have anything to talk about beyond that scope". I don't mind them ever. I never tried to initiate a conversation with them in my four years at Datamangle so far. It's not my concern. However, maybe some of them looked interesting to me. This woman, by now, I'm almost sure I have seen at Datamangle cybernetics HQ's cafeteria. I believe she was all by herself even there. She has a rather memorable face, it's no wonder I remember her even though I only see the surveillance agents as a corporate entity than a person. Since ordering her drink, she has only looked back two times thus far. It's one of those times I spotted the insignia. Although there's no formalised uniform in any branch of Datamangle and most corporations in Tatterstown down, corporate workers are expected to adhere to a certain dress code in their time at the firms and other field businesses. Everyone in cybernetics division, from my own department of marketing to other departments like logistics, manufacturer, R&D, maintenance and basically all field have a flexible yet sophisticated dress code. Even though the insignias are different, such a small device could not be adequate to detect surveillance agents who are seen at cybernetics facilities. Indeed it, even coupled with their demeanour is not sufficient. Surveillance division has a somewhat recognisable dress code even though it's based on the same corporate opulence that other branches are subject to. However, I feel like there's a degree of solemnly mythologised air about their professional attire, in colour and design alike. I bet the sense of distinctness is a deliberate drive behind the design of the dress code. This surveillance woman here at Les huits is in informal albeit sophisticated attire. Her insignia is not placed in the way to flash status but as a mark of identity. Minutes have passed since I entered Les huits and she hasn't shown any interest in anything of the bar other than the drink. If we were in the same position as we are now, in the different context of professionalism, things wouldn't seem anything strange at all. Me, a cybernetics corporate, minding my own business at the grand cafeteria. She, a surveillance corporate, minding her own business at the grand cafeteria. It's not her headquarters, she's away from there in our domain as a collaborator in a project. She only interacts professionally with my other colleagues at Datamangle Inc. Cybernetics. But now, we are both in an informal situation. In a bar no less. In a nostalgia bar, all the more importantly. How strange is that, a woman in the context where her livelihood holds the view that old world nostalgia is not preferable but merely tolerable? Maybe strange situation requires strange deviations? If I was in the Datamangle cafeteria, I would not even approach her for exchanging pleasantries. But here, I feel an curious desire to start a conversation with her? How could I start it though? Only person here she's spoken with so far is the bartender for ordering purpose. And I suppose beyond her own disinterest, her intimidating aura is keeping anyone in the bar to act on their own interest. An uninitiated citizen would not be able to tell the miniscule differences between the insignias of Datamangle's surveillance and other divisions, but the base insignia of Datamangle is well-known in Tatterstown and even broader NWF since Datamangle is one of the leaders in both local and international cybernetics market. So maybe the people in the bar, I believe most come from various non-corporate background, would view the woman with an otherness. "Hey, that woman is beautiful but she is a Datamangle agent. Scary! Better keep our distance". And as I'm currently off-duty and not wearing the insignia, I'm blended in the atmospheric demographics and started viewing her as an otherness, she's an otherness even if I was wearing the cybernetics branch insignia right now as well. Then the people in the bar would think "Hey there's a corporate man here as well and he appears to be from Datamangle as well. Two corporates in a nostalgia bar, how strange..."

Funtitled #40
Spinelineage I / Pedagogy of the Rebel with his Personal Writings Dying a Happy Death at the Trial

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

There is a woman sitting on the barstool near the counter my interest was piqued cause I had seen the insignia on her chest when she turned back for a while to check something. Other than that she's there on her own minding no one's business. Engaged in the simulacrum? Ever since I joined here, it's been what 4 years. I have noticed the lack of connection or coordination between Datamangle Inc's cybernetics and surveillance division. No it's not that they don't ever the see the face of one another but any sort of connection is behind a semi-permeable membrane. They don't act like two branches of the same corporation but as if two separate businesses working with each other for mutual benefit and non-classified collaborations, and most of the them are Datamangle's consumer products with connections to the central matrix. And the collaboration is only in the sense that the surveillance division properly evaluate the security protocols. The concepts and engineering are all cybernetics division's. But in a way, like I said there's the notion that they are two separate businesses in such that they both work for mutual benefit while keeping internal information classified, the surveillance division is still the domineering business, not in a threatening way but in being a ultra-classified operation. They carry the mystique of being directly involved with the central matrix. This woman- she peeked behind again. I think I saw her somewhere before. Her appearance does carry a sense of impervious secrecy. Surveillance agents, as I have seen at Datamangle were always agents from the surveillance HQ, always in state of loose ensemble of few meshes. Teams only arrived when there's culminatory period of security protocols implementation on any hardware and software that interacts with the central matrix. The moment they are done with that, the teams leave the cybernetics facilities immediately. I am at marketing department and we don't interact with enough, in the case of interactions being necessary are taken care of by my superiors. But during the times when I'm off work, such as lunch break, I'd in the grand hall of eatery. Usually dispersed from the cybernetics people, even among themselves, already made a miniscule presence by cybernetics demographic, they would be seen in very small groups and the sight of completely a sole surveillance agents being a dot somewhere in the vastness of air conditioned hall is an usual sight. Maybe in one such pause from the work, at the cafeteria, I had seen her. Not that I'm actively looking to seek them out. They don't even strike me as anomalous presence in our facility. It's true that large teams only arrive at cybernetics facility during the time of manpower-demanding situations. But it's also true that the sights of seeing them at the cybernetics facilities is a common occurrence. And congruently common is their perceived quiet intimidation factor. How do they interact with cybernetics people? If it's a colleague oh no the more accurate term is partners assigned to a project. But as I was saying, if the surveillance agents see you as partner, they would be completely open with only within the parameters of the project's handling of information. If you are not partners, then they don't treat you like dirt either. No not at all. Both are Datamangle and by the corporation's legislation, both departments including the other specialised branches of Datamangle are tied to have one common purpose and are the same organisation. Class divisions was a thing of the old world and all its history. Even though, history, as taught by New World Federation says that the new world, not just our loose ensemble of independent city-states that we call the NWF, but the whole surviving humanity outside of the NWF— this new world, strongholds around the world surviving the nuclear apocalypse, is said by history to be a complete rebirth of mankind. But class divisions remain. I'm confident that's a basic component of how humans form society. What's the law of economics? What even is economics? Deciding how to rationalise the distribution of seemingly infinite demands and painfully finite supplies. At one point in history, it was easier to get these rationalisationa through. Given how natural resources were abundant. I'm only speculating, the surviving world, at least the NWF has no case of abject poverty outside of marginalised demographics. It is true that there are still professions which are more predisposed to higher pay but every type of profession which had holders that held citizenship status with the central matrix led their life in higher standards compared to any known case in the history of the old world. Back then, the world's highest class were the wealthy investors and the various forms of governments the old world had, from monarchy to democracy. It's not any different now. The bureaucrats and the corporates are the prevailing class in our timeline. They are the same yet so different. Same drift towards wanting to both organise the society and carry the human condition forward, has necessitated the same acts carried out by the old worlders, just in a contextual manner. Maybe if the world had progressed to our timeline's without nuclear annihilation, maybe things would be less Draconian then. Humans would likely have depleted all resources but luckily at the same time, developed spacefaring technology enough to go on intercolonial expeditions. Resource harbouring at the very least. Interplanetary resource-farming then eventually developed spacefaring technology. Maybe humanity would be exploring a different galaxy altogether. Instead of doing meaningless acrobatics in these saved aquariums. In here, the post-human society, the corporates and the bureaucrats are the apex predator. There's no analogous animals left outside of the protective matrices throughout the world to draw biological apex predator comparisons. No corporate or bureaucrat would say "I am the lion of this society of sheep". Both lions and sheep, the one that survived by manmade salvation of Noah's ark, are merely preservations in zoos. Oh you are a lion? Lions live in zoos in our world, brother! The old world's boastful faunic comparisons were rendered vastly outdated in the new world. The only apex predator remaining in the world is indeed man. Back then, humanity established dominance over other species because it can think and carry out what it thinks using its hands and move about with its legs to ensure the ringings of what he thinks reverberates everywhere. A lion was physically superior to humans in terms of strength, but humanity built civilisations and lion didn't. Humanity grew starches and alcohol and lions didn't. Humanity annihilated the world and the lions didn't... Aren't we indeed the apex predator? With no nations or animals to dominate anymore, have we become predators amongst ourselves?

Funtitled #39
Kleptocratic Spectra I / Solar Currency's Hidden Siphon

Self-portrait #45
Carrion Cull

26 Jan 2026

Self-portrait #44
In memory of James Benning — 13 Lakes

26 Jan 2026

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

I stepped inside. A microember in the logarithmic hearth. Why were logarithmic scales invented? It's not a perceptual phenomenon. It is but it is not immediately perceptual. A grand measure was squeezed. Not shrunken. The data's vast phoenixwings came to be miniaturised in an alwaysburningneverashening feather. They put it inside a glass display. Visitors saw it and remarked: meaningless abstraction. Experts saw and remarked: gentlemen, we have the fucking base! The sensible, enchanting, elaborate designs of old world architecture had become quantified and applied only in cases of niche volition, even before the nuclear apocalypse. But I stepped inside Les huits now. I have the fucking base! Skidding on the base, exponents of the old world arise like cascading flowerbed detached from the synthetic gardens and twice multiply. Forehold. Octa. Exa! Nebuchadnezzar! The inside of Les huits, even though ornately decorated had a very refined sense of ornamentation. It's not a bridal makeover but as if macroscopic figgallops. Beyond the automated doors, modernity is minimal. This is out of fashion even in the 21st century of the old world. Figgallops on a stasis, its woodbronchial diffused with sprinkling nectars of micronutrients. Dethrone the grapes now for the red of the figs is the colour of my spirit and my alcohol! No reason to be standing here now. I'm getting a seat. The views are even more enchanting with a foothold. A foothold or arse thawed on wooden shores? The seats and every minute detail resemble a medieval inn, how nice! Then automated doors remain. Security measures. The revered citizens are exquisite. Corpus! Looking around. Bless my memory a few familiar faces could be seen not many but some who had been enchanted like me deviant designs nostalgia milking affinity of inflation soar onto catapults joyride the arsethawing seat brings in the tides of Greece erects Trojan horse herein not posing as Gods'gift these tides carry the lull of the last harmonics of the lost world no pitch modulation required no beat estimation it poses in front of the fort and woodiness rumple from underneath unfurls the kitten of a balcony no woundedknee summaries no regional killswitchesses just plain dots of intoxication the Trojans open their gates not out of divine notions the Trojans of the old world were not exquisite but it was the old world organic and Les huits is not exquisite and atop it's a simulation of the old world carried by the same notions of the new world with a veneer but it's not political it's a small business amidst corporations a mere moss in the corporate rainforest but it wets just the towering trees a simulation of rain brought forth pills the traveler into seeking water this is just be where water not synthesised with added additives of drinking water can be found ale and rum can be found but what does it matter the moment the traveler having sated its parched throat gets out the moment he leaves the wooden Trojan entrance to a destroyed city gets out he knows that the world does not exist outside of the shimmering simulation of the rotingressed fable there are no Spartans nor Athenians to pick your politics to capture you in the dilemmas of the world the practical world the spiritual world everything has been solved and the traveler gets out his throat still wet with water and sugarwaters but his spirit dries out instantaneously with no double derivatives to resolve to accelerate him towards oblivion but instead he continues his travel along the unbound shores of Troy seeing perfect designs of manmade structures and perfect heirarchies just like the Spartans expected to emerge one day but the Spartans didn't expect a complete foothold of their ideals now they are bankrupt in spiritual impoverishment have become crestfallen in its shining blades of perfection the traveler walks along these and he sees many men of honour women of strength none of them have functional soul anymore science said soul is a construct the traveler too believes it yet can't help feeling the gaping void he walks on unbandaged because no one could sell him a bandage for the something so nonsensical as a soul he walks and walks comes across many water fountains and inns to perch his throat but his spiritual gash deteriorates sometimes after not now maybe years later or decades the wound expands and drowns his construct of a soul under an expanding event horizon and then he sees all the life events he ever had were inside this construct he cannot see them anymore soon it began to drown him within from where even the perfection of order could not be seen and he collapses on the physically evident perfection of the pristine streets of Tatterstown maybe just on his way to Les huits the rum of Les huits are banal and cannot bring anything back from beyond the event horizon nothing could be seen anymore everything is drowning everything is meaningless. Sometimes later the artificially simulated regulated rainroutines fall from the sky. It is physically evident. The rain has physical evidence behind its existence. The soul does not. Hahaha!!

Funtitled #38
Tenebrae Eternae X / Brutalurkism

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

Around that time I was close to where I was to be close to. The symbols of bokeh had turned macroscopic. Bright orange, teal, turquoise. And others such. I was locking into it. Fatetethered. Woodiness rumple from underneath, unfurls the kitten of a balcony. Within my sight now: Les huits. One of the few bars in Tatterstown that favoured old school interior designs over pragmatic future. Even ancient in the scale of old world history, there used to be places called inns throughout the medieval world. Hearths and bards. Warm ale to rinse your respiration. Warmeverfurrying threads to mend the roadtoils. Travelers would visit them. Excuse me do you have a room for the night? Of course you do. Such a big inn. Brighton Coven. In the middle of nowhere. Not nowhere. The pastures and its grottos are in abundance. Wildlife moving through. Unbothered and unbothering. Just like the Gods had intended. Miss, how much for a room? Fine, I'll take it thank you! I stopped when I was in front of Les huits. Took a few moments to admire the ornate package. Marketing theorists would be proud. It's not just me speaking from my own expertise in field. I've been recently promoted to senior marketing coordinator at Datamangle Inc. They don't handle bars but technology. Whatever. The simple motive remains the same. Let the world know you possess. Entice the world. I know I'm not the only one with preference for old world aesthetics. I'm a regular at Les huits. There are many people there all the time. Oh would you look at the door! Fine embellishments. Not a pint of overreach. The perfect posterior. Ladies and gentlemen, the pints are riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from the swerve of the shore to the bends of the bay. This door is the poster. Not of debauchery or irresponsibility. But respite. Pints of design on the door perfumed of anxiety relinquishes. I imagine some were drowning their sorrows beyond that gate. As usual with mankind. Why did Gods embed the phenomenon of alcoholisation? Gods said, oh you grains and grapes. Your purpose is not merely carbohydrates. You are also to bear the responsibility of the people who are stuck in their miseries facilitated by your ingestion— the carbohydrates. The grains and grapes listened. They developed affinity for hydroxyls. The crushed grapes made their marks through cascaded systems: "Behold! Already on long parades, the crows anoint the statues with their dirts. And the souls, being lonely fly, towards your cheery chariots, to the skies". I was missing the tactility of a handle, a twist and a push, a push and a kinetic. Open! The threshold broadened and further enticed into its mysteries. The mysterious clarity of love. But that whole physicality had to be suppressed I assume. Tatterstown authority has given its residents and businesses the freedom to interior designs it considers "deviant and/or pastiche" even though it ceaselessly encourages its subjects to embrace new world sensibilities. But the law said automated doors must be used everywhere because beyond technical conventions, the central matrix intelligence assessed the credibility of the one standing before a door. Non-citizens are not allowed in interiors around the main city. They have all taken their interiority to the external worlds of the outskirts. Those regions are so outside of the main city that they don't even feel like parts of Tatterstown even though they share the same protective matrix. They are parts of the city, they are not parts of the legislature. A non-citizen, in my place right now, would continue to look at the ornate door. There was no knob to turn. No ID to let the door know of someone's presence. What can you do? The door scans me instantaneously and upholds its mysteries as I head inside.

Funtitled #37
Diegetic Annals I / সংহতি

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

The forces of heavens remain imbued within grimaced lacerations in the cold perfection of Tatterstown and its external world. Flawless networks! Marvelous central matrix systems that keep it protected from the nuclear wasteland. I am walking on a skyscraper that can be seen from the lateralis of the streets a distant fountain of smokes. Fire in the external world! Fire in the perfection? Rushes. Bees coming out of its torpor. Duty-bound responsibility of the firemen takes ahold. Not bored any longer. There's kerosene around she's something to do. Outpouring rancour of domestic violence or misshapen conduct of domestic security leading to arson. With or without motivation. With or without realisation. With or without destination. Complex. A flying vehicle, Tatterstown's technological jargon call the likes "Aeropropulsive Transportation", is already seen looming on the horizon. Reaching for the smokes coming from a floor in the skyscraper. 53rd floor. 54th. 56th. Th the th. Come hither. Icarus I dare thee! This is not myth. Aeropropulsive Transportation. Intumescence. Modern culinary arts not reliant on fire. Cigarettes must it had been. Dousing. Doused. The firemen will be successful as they drown the light. Kerosene not around. Bored. Terminality. No purpose. I keep on walking, the rains are starting to subdue. Gentle yet unsenile. Couples and saved dogs. The flora and the fauna thrive in zoos and framed botany. There were gardens in Tatterstown and around the NWF but they don't. They are not sanctuary. They are museums. I'm 27. Promoted. 28 almost. The flora are not that old but their ancestors were from organic greens. Not bearing self-loathing chlorophyll but joyful in the vast stomata of the universe. Let light in. Photosynthesis. Give away oxygen and fruits. Nourishment for the whole world. Happiness is the flower shared. But I'm happy though, I really am. My happiness is absolute knowing that my feet had touched the woodenwarmspunfloorenziums of Massachusetts mansion. If only for just two years. Mrs. Krallice Gotard brought me into this world. She held me close and taught me of the ways of communication. Moi nwame is Chooveen. Her hands held my delicate alwayscurve fingers. She picked me up when I fell and supported me when I was going to fell. Then she went out in silence one day. Did she get to teach me about the negativities of the world? Not murder, not betrayal, not greed not pride not lust not slothery. Slitherine... Euphemism! Child, there are ghosts! If you don't fall asleep in time they will crawl out from under the bed. Little Chauvin, behave now. The phantoms will come. Mothers and fathers do not tell their babies of the real monsters. What can you do? Babies know that they have been born into a world of benevolence. They are the fountain of all things bright and innocent. Why would you ruin their joy? Let them live. Son, the monsters are vampires, phantoms, echoes of Helheim. Not greed not pride not betrayal. The ghosts take the burden. Mother, I'd have loved to hear more of your words of wisdom. I wonder how your speeches would be adjusted when I became 7. 8. 9. Promoted. Soon I was to cross elementary. Middle school. High school. College. If Mrs. Krallice Gotard had not fallen into perpetual speechlessness, I wonder how things would turn out. But I am still happy. I don't remember her aura but it's embedded deep into the Akashic records of my soul. The foliages of Massachusetts. Dusty country roads. The mysterious everdarkgreen cradle of the Earth as the sun took the day off. I don't see them. I don't remember them. I existed amidst them one day. Alas, if only I was born earlier...

Funtitled #36
Affairs Mk. 3 XI / Max High

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

I was moving through the streets with solemn inquiries more ancient than the rocks between us today was my day. Promoted. I'm in a solid position for 27. 28 almost. 29 in a year. 30. One! Years lapse by. Young adult! Not so young. I wonder how could it be like if the world did not fell like this I am not omnipotent A God could see the world's image even after its been destroyed cradleswept arboreals of the external world where matter and phenomena exist for virtuosic display of the Gods fervour rrrrrr a rent in spacetime situations had transpired the universe crawled in to claim the mortgage mother earth is bankrupt the Gods have run out of macrocredit time Atlas brightened brighten to the core of the Earth as his image brightened to the point of erasure in being solidified in the beacons of caustic light downpour erasure no astronaut could see the earth held together in a locus going through periodic motion no tidal response to the moon in dead oceans but Earth's oceans still send waves still impregnated by luminous propulsion they forge sinewaves sinuous simultaneous oscillation to moonmagnet draw in draw out the whales do not rise to put the harmonious additions to the waves the waves exist as a melody with no audience way past way past the event horizon. Behold: cosmic theatre is behind the invisible bar. You are not invited, mister! Halt! The Demonking is upstairs ranched with gluttony. He's feeding on the carcass of this drowned world surveillance footage of his succubi circle could be seen on monitornetworks on the wall the succubi fed on the dreams of the existent men dreaming of foliages the demons stole the green the demonking looked at the dreamer's external world sternly beams of grey fell upon the rigid-articulate craft of neo-postmodern architecture the dreamer was in somnium he was projecting his ideals. Old world new world what does it matter? Tout est grace! Lo and behold: the succubi circle. Keep your phenol close by friend the snakes are rampant in this eco park. Biomes collapsed. Perished long ago. The snakes do not balance out the rabbits and the hawks do not balance out the snakes its all snakes every where the eyes could see. I see faraway. An oasis. Barred behind a Schwarzschildt radius. It doesn't matter. Uprising ensues. The forces of heavens will gather today to rescue abducted-light from beyond. 

Funtitled #35
For Niklas Kvarforth VII / Yttligare Ett Steg Närmare Total Jävla Utfrysning II

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

When Chauvin woke up it was not just the colour and material of the floor that changed. Mwammy would not spend vast amounts of her times encouraging Chauvin to walk. Mrs. Krallice Gotard had already reached peak geriatric period. No not even that. What's a happy last life like, even spiritually? The contentment from having experienced many things and having seen the changes of age and now having to time, in retirement, to recollect up it all to heart's content. Mrs. Krallice Gotard, my mother, was 40 year old the time the bombs fell but spiritually she was moribund. Shortly after our refuge in Tatterstown, mother had fallen into a state of perpetual speechlessness. What about my father? Mr. Benzo Gotard wa..., as I was 2 at the time of the apocalypse and 7 at the time of his ultimate insanity, what would I know of him? When I was 2 I couldn't have known any major details at the time of my infancy, children interpret people in terms of aura. No one can possibly claim to remember ever about their memory of such tender an age. I imagine he used to be a great father. My elder sister, Mary, told me that he was the best dad she could possibly imagine. I trust her. I don't remember what kind of aura, me as baby Chauvin, had interpreted from my father, but as a young boy, I remember for certain that he was frightening me all the time. No. Mr. Gotard was never physically hostile towards any one he interacted with: family members, servants, visitors. Written record says he was always reasonable, warm personality and persuasive personality. Full of activity and vigour and patriotism. He was a distinguished politician in the Eastern American state of Massachusetts. We don't talk about his actual designation in the then-ruling Niqqson regime, no not saying that in a broader sense. It's just our familial culture. The new world has gone on to follow entirety new mentality following the apocalypse, it's a total rebirth after all. But the history of the Niqqson regime is taught in national curriculum throughout the NWF. Not reverently, but as concrete history. Even though the new world has enforced a modified version on the vast majority of continuous human knowledge as studied in academic contexts, some few have remained more or less unaltered. The entire history of the events leading up to the third great war is preserved in great detail and taught/academically held in a matter-of-fact way. Perhaps it is to ensure that the new generation of the new world learns from the mistakes and horrors of the old world? The skeptic in me says that the motive to let people know about how bad things could be and how grateful the citizens should be knowing how they were chosen to be saved from the fate of the grand majority of humanity? Why skeptic? Is it not factual? A hidden secret? I used to a corporate agent. I held the centrally-assessed model citizen status. I was a shining beacon of productivity and growth at Datamangle. Maybe that is why my mind is framing the actual state as skepticism, regarding Tatterstown, because I was a part of the machine that simulated this illusion of utopia? 

Funtitled #34
In memoriam Mark Rothko IX / Byzantine, Navy Blue, Burned Saffron, Antique White, Black

 

Self-portrait #43
In memory of উজ্জ্বলতর মৃত্যু এখন — অপদার্থ মানুষ হত্যা কর

25 Jan 2026

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

It was raining and the textures of the asphalt and the pavement were put on a glazed macroscopic scale the asphalt and the pavement. The asphalt and the pavement were watershed from the artificially simulated rain, the rain was its crocodile tear throes and the asphalt was watershed. Moment! So many moments even here now. Persists. Neo-postmodern architecture. Flawless street networks. People with ponchos abundant. Some were illusioned into its fragile falsehood: "I never lived to see the heavy clouds, impregnated with tears of the Gods that would bring this land into fertile rejuvenation. The central matrix discharge is enough for me!" The authority is not cruel, the rain was made of pure water, even purer than old world rain which was sometimes infused with the likes of sulphuric acid from the industrial pollution latching onto the cauldron of the clouds. Fuck you! My poncho blocks its thaws. I was walking through the streets in a lazy-aimless pace, amidst the flawless street networks and its rainwash daisies. Sometimes my eyesight would go out of focus. I would force my eyes to go out of focus. To see: do the artificial lights rinse the inner sanctum? Bokeh! Bokeh bokeh bokeh don't you go. Why do you need to be held? Why do my eyes have to sustain clear images in their natural orientation. I wish I could only see blurs... Perpetually. The world became more beautiful. At one point I was no longer trying to take my eyes out of focus. Back to streets again. As they were. A couple just walked by, the man had a brown poncho. The woman had a blue poncho. Beautiful contrast! I could see the hearthen warmth in her smile. Some genuineness still remain. Majestic! The Gods ordered so. How could mankind continue to live so if there was no beauty anymore? Gods made mankind to not just see the beauty of surfaces but the grand design of it all. Meaning of life meaning of death meaning of existence. The fragile beauty of hyacinths, pinnacle of fertilisation. She exists to remind mankind: Gods have given us the hunger to feel our identity, God's have given us the drive to shape our identity. Hunters, cooks, theologian, gardener. Hyacinths! The intimidating beauty of the horizon, epitome of mystery. Gods gave our eyes infinite focus to spot the horizon and the forgotten stars on the sky, Gods gave us the insatiable curiosity to know how far they stretched. Kings after kings after kings. Then queens then queens then kings. Mighty singular, they are all dead they are all dead. The authorities are transient the chains of oppression and domination persist it's ingrained on the lymph nodes ingressed from the circumstances. What was my father like? Have I ever seen him like he was? In Massachusetts. Some time before the simmering pot of geopolitics. Furrowed into boiling. Acidic insemination of tumultous rupture of the Earth's crusts. They tainted the pastorals of Massachusetts. I was a little baby. Stuck into the trial and errors of speeches and mobilisation. Stand up. Steady. Steady... Un step deux step trois perchoirs. Confident now. Lucid smile of the delicate face brighten up. Up. More steps. Lose balance. Fall. The baby was confused. I was walking. Steps after steps. Why did I no longer go forward. Oh! I fell. Why does it hurt now? I'm sobbing. Relinquishes. Some days were not like others. The baby got up from falling-crying and took further steps: bastion of les trois perchoirs. He had started mimicing his mother some time before. Or after. Simultaneously. As he took steps, to learn to move through physical spaces; he took guidances towards the verbal spaces of man. Mwammy. Dwaddy. Moi nwame is Chooveen. My father had a deep appreciation for nature and as such baby Chauvin was to spend time outside. First, he must learn how to move. How to communicate. His bright eyes were anchor points of kite-chronicles. Could the kite go further on the blue sky on an argent penchant for wanderwonder? When little Chauvin was two something changed drastically. He was walking on wooden floor. Warm and tactile. There was a grand hearth in the house but servants monitored Chauvin to make sure he doesn't go too near it. Chauvin continued his trials towards learning to walk. The way it must be. The way I want him to be. I wanted him to move on from furnished mansion towards feeling the soil of Massachusetts. To see the mysterious lights emanating from duskskies. The anchors of his bright eyes becoming brightened with wonder: who moves the astral wings? When little Chauvin was two something changed drastically. Little Chauvin could not have known then but if he could look past his infantile wonder he could see visible stresses on the face of his father. Barely contained. Stress palpitations were starting to stress palpitations were starting to be visible, brunting the uniformity in oxidative markyrs. Absalom Absalom, pity to the stressed! Mom was in apocalyptic sobbing. Baby Chauvin could not hear any humane sounds occuring in the vehicle as it was on a painfully long drive towards Tatterstown, away from pastoral Massachusetts. Mom was not engaging Chauvin with active enthusiasm, she was not interested in bringing up her little child. Mom was in apocalyptic silence. Chauvin was crying. Dad was in apocalyptic stress. Chauvin was crying. After a while he got tired and fell asleep.

Funtitled #33
Affairs Mk. 3 X / Some Kind of Faith Has Brought Me Here...

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

But Agatha is still as she was, asleep on the bed with her beauty and composure. What a great mess I'm in... I don't dare waking her up to tell her about my nightmare. I imagine she would wake up without any tetherings still latching onto somnium, her alien version of it. She would look at me and ask me if there's anything wrong. And she would listen with patience, it doesn't matter if I go on babbling for unruly long durations. Then she would share her wisdom with me. But do I want to let her know of my weakness? No, it's not the act of nightmare-share that I'm afraid of, neither its contents. But the weakness of letting her know that a nightmare has taken me in a chokehold. What would she know of it anyway? She dreams of alien perceptions. I began pacing around the room in unresolved anxiety, grateful for the noise reduction technology that I have already activated. It was developed at Datamangle. Noise reduction is nothing new, it's been in fleshed-out development well before the Inception of new world. The invention of Datamangle is not noise reduction of external signals, but the signals of internal cybernetics. The humans of new world's nervous systems are strongly tied to their cyberwares. Agitation, sickness and other aberrations from the parameters of health can, and do resonate through their cyberwares. The governments around the NWF have created the central matrix to monitor and regulate its subjects and thus every citizen in the cities are registered on the system. However, the government only intervenes when the governments' artificial intelligence systems and their human monitors detect signs that they perceive as deviant or anti-authority. So, an agitated rebel and a person experiencing cardiac arrest, both's organic reactions to their organic signals affect their cyberwares which in turn are connected to the central matrix. The authority only intervenes in the case of the rebel. So what is the solution for the cardiac patient, who might be having his throes in the deep of night? For a subscription fee, some corporations provide services which create a network between cybernetics of a specific, user-defined group, such as friends and family. In the time of distress, those connected in the network get notified of the distress. The government's baseline cybernetics don't come with the function. It's quite clear that government is intentionally doing that to open the floodgates of opportunities for the corporations. Upon upgrading to premium cybernetics, depending on the producer and model, the user gains: assisted emotional regulation, impulse control, enhanced foresight, on-demand memoryboard, optimised blood circulation... There are too many of them out there, both the company and the cybernetics; Datamangle is one of the leading ones in Tatterstown, thus, as Tatterstown is the tech capital of the NWF, Datamangle is one of the leading cybernetics manufacturer in all of the New World Federation. But cybernetics is only a facet of Datamangle Inc's operations, the corporation has a heavier portion of its manpower, AI and facilities dedicated to the maintenance of the central matrix and remote espionage. Every corporation is tied to the government. However, some corporations have such fundamental affiliation with the government that the boundaries between them blur. These corporations are not just helping the authority fine-tune its whip, but they are given the liberty to take the whip to their own hands. I was a senior vice president of marketing at Datamangle but I was designated within the cybernetics branch. The central authority of Datamangle maintains a firm impermeable boundary between its surveillance/espionage branch and others. As the branches of Datamangle were completely compartmentalised, there was no common channel between its principles, resources and even manpower. No one at Datamangle cybernetics division knew any one from Datamangle surveillance division, but only the topmost executive. In most of the corporations across the New World Federation, corporate chain-of-command is strictly maintained. As a senior vice president, I had the right to get every information of relevant nature from any of the professionals with lower rank. But I could not ask for even the most trivial professional information from the person holding lowest designation at Datamangle Surveillance, although that scenario is practically impossible due to the isolation. Despite that, I had met a person from Datamangle surveillance division, outside of professional situation. I had met her at a bar.

Funtitled #32
Heatwaves Mk. 2 I / Crystallised Melt

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

I stepped outside our bedroom, amidst the artificially phosphorescent ambient lighting in the grandroom, the purple light emanating from the holographic controlboard of the refrigerator stood out dramatically. We are in a witch's coven, she has fled out of here with her iridescent broom long ago... Our Tatterstown house was nothing quite like this one here in Gauntville. As our immigration was not carefully planned due to shortage of time, there was no way of finding a place suitable to my sensibility. Agatha usually does not impose her opinions in cases like this; when we bought the apartment she said that it's just fine. I quote her verbatim: "This apartment is rather fine"... It's nothing divergent from the neo-postmodern interior design approaches that are common in Gauntville, Tatterstown is not radically different either. I have dealt with these types daily in my former workplace, Datamangle Inc, albeit they were different forms of the same principles. Even though Datamangle Inc's interior designs did not make my heart leap with joy, I had reconciled: I am here for occupation, not touristry. When I returned home, the subtle integration of Baroque aesthetics made me feel awed and pleased. The world used to be so beautiful. Now here in Gauntville apartment, it seemed like there was no sojourn within household anymore. I have to replace this junk design immediately... Gavin's room was across the hall. He left home before noon and returned unusually late. We had already done dinner and were preparing for bed when he slipped in through the main door. He was always somewhat defiant across all context but he shares his mother's resilience. Agatha and Gavin, a mirror of each other, yet so unquantifiably different; it was not a reflective mirror. I walked towards his door. Access denied. I tried running the decryption signal through the apartment's mainframe. Access denied. It's astounding that he has already modified the security keys of his room notwithstanding the tight mainframe, it has not even been more two months since our stay here! Is he untrustful of his own family? I remember Agatha entering his room this morning. Has he given her access while excluding me? Minutes passed while I was looking at the locked door, I wanted to look how he looks like while asleep. How does his hair flow? Where does his body lean towards? And what does he dream of? Instead, all that returned was the door with its foul neo-postmodern design and lighting. I love my family but I am usually not too concerned about their sleeptime countenances. Gavin, like his mother, dreams of alien perceptions. That's all I can deduce. If it was Agatha instead of me whose sleep was hampered and had she woken up, gone to the bathroom, spent minutes on the holographic reflection, returned to the bedroom, drifted towards the bed, stood near my side of the bed, inspected me, she could see: "aerial contortions were coming from his face, a face with a distinct scar, nightmares were still unable to physically contort his face, barely kept on leash like warfueled cavalcades". 

Uentitled #5
For Anna von Hausswolff V / Källans återuppståndelse IV (Lysande)

 Chapter 5 (Cont.)

The bathroom door opened in graceful silence as I stepped outside of the bathroom. The ambient lighting was a dim amber in the bedroom. I stepped towards the bed and looked at Agatha: even in deep sleep, it seemed like she has retained total composure. Her straight brown hair was scattered around the pillow, some stray strands found their way over her left eye, over the nose, nudging on her lips. How beautiful she is... It is both habitual and somnium-instinctive of people to unknowingly assume various postures in their sleep. Agatha's body was straight on the bed, her legs were straight too and even her hands were placed in discipline beside the body. People in dreams have relaxed postures, people in nightmares have distressed postures. What does Agatha dream of? I looked at Agatha again, closely. Closer still. People asleep would often have a lost composure, sometimes to a comical degree. Agatha's face looks as it always does, the only difference is that her eyes are closed now. Her grey eyes remind me of Dana Brazencunt, but instead of malice, there's a profoundly calm intensity. As she is not of this world. Is she of this world? Is she... When we married, she had refused to let go of her maiden name. She wouldn't even agree to a hyphenation. My wife is Agatha Granger. Not Agatha Gotard or Agatha Granger-Gotard. 

Uentitled #4
For Anna von Hausswolff IV / Källans återuppståndelse III (Från ett avstånd)

 Chapter 5.

A white-bronze field could be seen on the mirror: not perfectly uniform. There was a permanent diagonal scar on the left side. The scar had stopped the growth of hair within the affected region in the otherwise uniform field. In the uniform field, the contrast was not extremely stark. The straddling hair did not get so long as to gain their own movement, they were not so short as to be dots speculated to be hair from familiar association; the field was an almost shaved porcupine. I looked at the holographic mirror, closely. Closer still. Stress palpitations were starting to be visible, brunting the uniformity in oxidative markyrs. Absalom Absalom, pity to the stressed! The flowing tap was unfeeling, fluid in its downward procession. In recession, my mind hovered back to the dream. A dream is defined as the repressed desires of the mind. A person's desires, from their handgunlike stature and range in practical scenarios, become catapults in their sleep. Something that seizes the inaccessible stronghold of desire within its temporal bounds of sleep. Nightmares are not the exact inverse of a dream, the opposite of desire is not only fear but fear and abhorrence. A nightmare reveals a person's darkest fears but not only that. It is no longer a fear that is looming, a fear of an individual or an object, or even fear of abstract ideas. A nightmare is when the entire world, as experienced in a nightmarescape, has fallen victim to the all-curling silence propagated by the fears. If someone fears tigers and adores hyacinths, in a nightmarescape, both would be rendered equally abominable. I cannot classify what I have just seen as either a dream or a nightmare. A prophecy is separate, a flashback in separate, a guilt-panorama is separate... 

Uentitled #3
For Anna von Hausswolff III / Källans återuppståndelse II (Besätta)

Self-portrait #42
Entflieht auf leichten Kähnen

Jan 21 2026

 

Self-portrait #41
Minor Sunbath

Jan 22 2026

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

I was still looking at the flowing water, minutes have passed since the sink has been active. The New World's technology ensured artificial synthesis of water even when most natural sources have long perished. There was no reason to be economic anymore. And the water is not getting wasted, through its flow I could see my past. I can almost see now... Agatha you are late, have you forgotten that it's Friday today?... First there was silence! The titans had made the universe out of a grand unbroken canvas and the gods were the placeholders for its framing as black ink flowed in to saturate it with mystery. Titans cried before they left and their tears had fallen upon the black ink. The titans left and their tears had become planets solar systems galaxies clusters superclusters. The titans' tears in some places unable to get over the grief of its former cradleswept eyecanoes had broken down under its pressured grief. There were black holes...

Uentitled #2
For Anna von Hausswolff II / Dead Magic

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

Steady, harmonious flow of pure water was still falling from the sink, I was captivated by it, looking at the stream still. Still... I come from vastly different circumstances than my husband. I came of age in vastly different circumstances than that of my son. Yet I have been here in the NWF for long enough that the initial alien perception has solidified into the merging of two distinct tapestries. The occupants on one tapestry would call the other ugly and abhorrent; and vice versa. Situations have led me to believe that these are as those are. No adjectives could be definitive for the transient mankind. 

Uentitled #1
For Anna von Hausswolff I / Källans återuppståndelse

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

I turned on the sink for no apparent purpose: I noticed the uniform flow of water, purified of radioactivity, chirping out from its mouth; as if not distressed nor elated birds, but detachedly serene ones unaware of their songs. Our house back in Tatterstown had an even more lavish sink. My husband had a niche interior designer work with what he calls baroque sensibilities. Another of his nostalgias for the old world... He is only two years older than me and as such, even though he was born two years before the nuclear war, by the time he could make sense of his surroundings, it was no longer the old world. He was born in Eastern America, near the time of its frozen limit. I know very little details about my parent-in-laws, but his father was an active politician serving the Niqqson regime. Their ancestral home was out of the bounds of high-priority zones, can we even call them high-priority zones in the original sense of the term? Saying those were the only habitable zones would be more apt. Their ancestral estate in rural Massachusetts was razed to nothingness as my in-laws, with my husband- infant Chauvin, relocated inside the protective matrix of what would later be Tatterstown. So even though Chauvin was born in the pastoral beauty, buttered by rainwash daisies, of Massachusetts, by the time he could perceive beauty and ruminate on its transience, he was within the artificiality of high-priority zones. By the time he was in middle school, he had taken on its own to learn about the old war culture; chasing the phantom of his birth age in an unmapped labyrinth. Tatterstown, just like any other city-states in the NWF, has no inclusion of old world culture in its curriculum. It emphasised on science and the cultural education was strictly contained to those facets which the new world education ministry had crystallised from the molten salts of the old world cultures. Hence there was regulation without fluidity. Chauvin would not know of his past if his father, politician Benzo Gotard, had not fallen into terrifying guilt shortly after the nuclear devastation and started erratic monologues at home. It seemed that the warheads did not just land on his proudly passed-down ancestral estate, but on his psyche as well. What initially was the grief of his estate soon had spiralled down into unbearable remorse of being part of the system, even if he was a mere cog. Mr. Benzo Gotard was a charismatic and composed person who had extraordinary persuasion, tactical reasoning and all the qualities of a successful politician. In fact, the post-nuclear Niqqson regime had given him a key place in Tatterstown's governance due to his competence. But fate's tempest had taken a tumultous form as burdened by unshakable trauma, he was driven into utter insanity.

Funtitled #31
In memoriam Martyr Mir Mughdo I / Who Needs Water in This Heat (Deceit)?

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

When I made my way out of Gavin's room and towards the kitchen, I saw my husband still holding the newspaper in a hypnosis; there was the coffee cup on the side table. Without disturbing him or letting him know of my presence, I peeked through the glass to look at the balcony, at the content of the coffee cup: halfway from its original filling, suggesting that he has been too busy in the newspaper to remember taking sips. Funny thing... He doesn't let me make his coffees, he insists on making them himself, with an unwavering passion for the craft. Even before our meeting, he had already rejected modern automated coffeemakers, instead opting for old world brewing procedures. So we have manual brewers, filters, beans and even something so antiquated as a kettle. The popular coffee brewer throughout the NWF was an advanced machine with holographic controls that covered every type of coffee imaginable with precision. Although some companies have capitalised nostalgia for a while and marketed unprocessed beans and manual brewers, no one but only historians know that there used to be a thing called a kettle. Museums in the New World Federation states has exhibitions of prehistoric age, medieval age and late modernity; major details of post-industrial age and late pre-nuclear age were still inside a smokescreen. My husband, I assume, had secured the kettle from an auction. However, the seemingly archeological object was still in pristine condition and he started using it to prepare his coffees; it takes a lot of time from his busy schedule, considering he consumes coffee multiple times a day. Without looking at the newspaper, I started heading towards the kitchen. I don't have to look at newspaper, or even sense the subscribed infoboard in the embedded systems. There was a massacre in Tatterstown. Before any news agency even learned of the event, I knew about it in full detail. If my husband had not disabled the automated news on his system, he would have known about it earlier, yesterday, and not this morning. But even then, I would have already known about the incident for longer than him, or the news agencies... Josef Keinstein was a major binding force in the net of Tatterstown authority. He was not my direct employer, for he handled civil coordination and not my relevant fields; but still, in a way, he was one of my employers.

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Chromatic Whistleblowers I / We Know Who Speaks for the Idols

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

Maybe that's why Middle America, led by the Neuronusk authority, was able to retain far higher percentage of its landmass compared to any other region in North America and perhaps the entire earth. Following the authority's foothold in the Middle American land, the leaders of Neuronusk had immediately enacted total non-intervention, non-aggression policies. Instead of erecting vantage points and digging foxholes, the government had invested their all in maximum defense. The civil war took place in 2057, the grand war culminated in 2099; so aside from the region having the advantage of being in control of its own vision, there was also enough time for its obsessions to head towards successful fruitions. Even though Niqqson's Eastern America had notoriety in the theatre of the third great war for its formidable military, martial technology and remote espionage tactics, Neuronusk's Middle America, with its already supple bastions of cutting-edge research, had made incredible strides that had remained intentionally obscured in isolation. While Niqqson's regime had put the men and women of letters under duress, towards immoral directions, particularly those of its former state of Massachusetts; the scientists in the universities and facilities throughout Middle America were inspired by the charismatic leaders towards a sacred mission. When the bombs fell all over the world, the governments around the old world, having no way to stop the annihilation, retaliated with doomsday protocols. Niqqson, from the safety of his protective matrices, had ordered strikes even on non-hostile nations, those which did not have advanced martial technology like his. It is reported that the psychotic regime had launched major strikes throughout its home continent of North America and even the allied nations across the sea. 26th of May, 2099 was a day of ultimate retribution without any sustainable justification. Niqqson was not the only monstrous leader in its theatre, more on the contrary, the vast majority of world leaders had turned completely psychotic near the final hour. Meanwhile, the authority of Neuronusk, with its meticulous, deliberate longtime plans, attempted saving its people, resources and high-priority zones with gritted teeth. They knew their unified, focused plan was not going to see high enough efficiency; because even if the results were numerically up to positive estimation, they, in their taut vanity of superiority, had believed they deserved to be completely unharmed and left alone by the vengeful mankind. Regardless, even during that hour where the most apathetic had shuddered to the core, the Neuronusk government had remained steadfast in its non-aggression policies. Despite their formidable stockpile of advanced warheads, none of them ever left the encryption of the cabins. No Middle American general had wanted to break through the safety glass and reach for the weapons with the passionate mantra: "I curse this world that should be dying"...

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Affairs Mk. 3 IX / To Here Knows When...

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

On the other hand, any information, even the scantest, most fragile deduction on the fate of Middle America remains entirely inscrutable. I know that the situation will continue to remain so. I am a daughter of Neuronusk after all. I was born there in the year zero of nuclear apocalypse, five months after the ultimate climax of the third great war. Decades before that cursed event, after the civil-war and subsequent dissolution of United States of America, Middle America, my home, was striving towards something radically different from its neighbours. Unlike the hegemonic drives of Eastern America and the conservative isolationism of Southern America, Middle America was orchestrating a divergent form of utopia, unlike anything else in the history of the old world. My father, Matthew Granger, was one of the prime idealists behind its realisation. Middle America was not just chasing isolation, it was attempting knowledge for knowledge's sake. The idealists of Middle America had formulated a governance system based around intellectual merit and emotional depth. According to them, historical reading of mankind suggested that the major culprit behind human clashes were not the need to dominate others, not to exert chauvinistic claims of rights, not to gain strategic advantage, not to secure natural resources; according to them, it was primarily the failure to reconcile. Middle America's constitution had atheistic tendencies, even though it was completely tolerant of practising people. And even at its most secular, the national consciousness had drawn from the teachings of Abarhamic lineage: it was taught in schools— pride and envy are the bane of humanity. The idealists of Middle America also had realised that it is out of the bounds of feasibility that the humane reconciliation could be made to be the weapon instead of projectiles, in times of clashes. Their solution was to completely dissociate from the world they had perceived as morally inferior and opportunistic. Southern America too had such arrogant sense of moral superiority albeit it had manifested in total opposites: Middle America, particularly the capital Neuronusk, was fiercely dedicated to progress through ambition, peace through control. Another crucial aspect about their political and scientific approach was valuing sciences and arts as the vessel to traverse the ocean of curiosity with; even though Middle America had rapidly developed destructive weapons and other defensive and offensive technologies, they actively had discouraged its boarders from strapping the vessel with weaponry. Their approach was to keep its weapons hidden in the cabins, enclosed in a way that one could not reach them without the time of critical emergency. The vessel operated by the authority of Neuronusk, upon identifying threats and alliances alike on its radar would do everything in its power to avoid coming in contact with them. They sought total sovereignty and self-containment for according to them, the rest of the vessels and fleets on the ocean could neither sail on it like them, nor want to head in the similar direction. They said the ocean was vast enough to avoid coming in contact with or needing the association/warfare with other vessels.

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Nulls IV / System's Sun: Gleediot, Blatant; Summoned Orb: Expensive, Sleep-safe

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

After the all-out nuclear war, the already hostile relations and situations of the nations in America had permanently ceased and gone out in a blackout. 99% of the American landmass had suddenly fallen into a grave silence. All that remained were slight speckles of preserved habitats, scarcely distributed through the staggering scale of black, scorched soil; and cracks betwixt from where contents of the dead ocean arose as to further dishearten the deteriorating sanity of Mother Earth. Even now, in 2149, half a decade since the nuclear destruction, Northern American nations have no evident knowledge regarding the fate of their intracontinental neighbours, let alone other continents of the world. Even within the nations, there were only but strategic agreements among the surviving packets now known as city-states; there was no such thing we could formally identify as alliance. For instance, Tatterstown traded its technologies with Painicipality in exchange for credits. And conditional immigration between the two was tolerated, although had become a tedious bureaucratic process with ample chances of failure. The New World Federation still had some degree of intranational communication. On the other hand, information on the two neighbouring nations: Middle America and Southern America were largely experts' deductions based on raw satellite reports. Since each nation, in Northern America and other parts of the globe, had uniquely developed the preservation technology, there were major differences in efficiency and behaviour alike. Some advanced electromagnetic shields, such as the one in Tatterstown, were made to be completely impenetrable by known synthetic visors. Nothing that happens in Tatterstown could be made out from current generation satellites. This aspect of protective measures was somewhat ubiquitous in all survival systems as every strategist, scientist, engineer had foreseen the potential information warfare afterwards. However, several technological corporations in Tatterstown, including the one my husband used to work in, had developed progressing decryption methods and advanced penetrative algorithms that could crack into some invisible protective matrices used in some nations around the continent of Northern America. Recent breakthrough in this project suggests that Southern America's pre-war regime has maintained a firm grip in the region since the nuclear war. Although, decisively, the key city-states in the nation have more sophisticated encryption systems that escape the bounds of Tatterstown's technologies. 

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Discrete Packets in a Sheaf VII / Wellcutout

 Chapter 4 (Cont.) 

Meanwhile the host-nation of Neuronusk, for a reason we will say: middle America, instead of its constitutional name, veered towards complete isolation, a total dissociation from geopolitical concerns, retaliating only when directly threatened. Similar fate had befallen another splinter of North America: for a convention we will call it: Southern America. It is documented in forgotten political history books, which I only know due to my work scope, even then only being of tertiary necessity; the new world has become completely oblivious of the old world, the protocols before the nuclear annihilation indeed had made a major evolutionary leap in the history of mankind: one that made transition to a new landscape so vast that the previous cannot be spotted in the horizon any longer nor it has any use of one could indeed spot a facet of it. But human condition is transitional yet continuous. Mankind did not get rebirthed as much it had made a crucial evolutionary response to the drastic change in every circumstance. The old ideals of splintered America still linger behind many echoes of the new America's ambiences. The old Southern America had become drastically paleoconservative after the civil war; indeed even before the onset of the civil war, there was a looming discontent in the region regarding how the central government was handling issues. This discontent was being spearheaded by a particular group whose views largely deviated from those of the central authority. This movement, in turn was being spearheaded by Richard Spiektomb. Historical accounts suggest that Spiektomb's party had methodically taken advantage of the widespread public unrest and dissatisfaction. Through the party's strategies and manipulations, they had performed a transformative feat in a surprisingly short time: carrying out a successful coup which was widely facilitated by the popular opinion. The representatives of the central authority had suffered the gestalt of that seismic wave throughout Southern America.

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For Lee Bartow VII / The Illusions That Loneliness Manufactures

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

The once-unified North America was, decades before the third great war, already divided into multiple nations. Various disagreements regarding governance, geopolitics and other pillars of constitution had led to a boiling aggression. Like pressurised chambers in a facility, where active controlboards had corroded beyond manipulation and passive circumstances had turned astringent, the valves broke out in a diabolical fury. Thus North America, the prime hegemonic power of the old world, had become divided among themselves at the cost of many lives. The city I was born in, Neuronusk, was part of a separate nation from eastern North America, which now exists as the New World Federation. Although ideological differences among the different nations within North America were manifold, perhaps no two other nations had leviathanic ideological clash like that of the host-nation of Neuronusk and eastern North America. Eastern North America had the impervious intent to maintain hegemony, it had existed as pure concentrate of pre-civil war megalomaniacal North America and had started betting the vast majority of its resources on defense and clandestine protocols. During the final years of the third great war, the intent had turned psychotic, but only parametrically so. The regime of Sovereign Niqqson II was completely lucid about its technology, military and mayday safety protocols. And the opposite was true for civil rights, wealth distribution, freedom of expression: traits which were fundamental bases of entire North America. The state of eastern North America had regressed back to the depression age, but far beyond the scale of that historical span of time.

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Affairs Mk. 3 VIII / Pints of Light, Crusadely

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

The geological consequence of the third great war was massive. The old world was classified into five continents. The nuclear technology advanced after the second great war to a terrifying degree. When they were put to rampant use during the third great war, it seemed as if the earth was distressed down to tectonic plates. Like a mother yet unaware of the grief of child's passing, they fell into a moribund catatonia, the state of near-death indefinitely sustained; and the corpse of the earth was no longer in her hands as her mind fell back into incessant static. She was unable to comprehend the meaning of her son, losing the warmth of her embrace, falling down on the cold ground. Her spirit could no longer process anything... There were no disparate continents anymore but chunks of landmass floating on dead ocean. The former continent of the New World Federation used to be massive, since then it has been asunder. So have been all of the former continents. The harmonious sound of the former earth was perpetually disturbed by an incessant clamour from where only mild resemblances of the former harmony could be made out, only if one was properly trained and had not fallen into the same fate of catatonic Mother Earth. The situation was not clear during the final climax of the third war, and for a while after that it had remained looming beyond the horizon of discernibility, for humanity had other concerns of immediate addressal. But sometime later, using the unharmed satellites, it was revealed that the continents had been rearranged haphazardly. Not of God's sublime calculation, not of clumsiness of a juvenile artist, but of a deliberate Devil, seemingly unharmonious yet full of statements: the former earth had been rendered into an abstract expressionist canvas. Like Arshile Gorky's Agony, the swansong of a visionary old world artist made before suicide, the earth was a burning studio where perceived specks of relative coolness were but projections of a tenacious mind. Satellite inspection had revealed that the former disparate continents of Europe and Africa had become a mishmash. The vast, unbroken landmass of Asia had borne the bayonett wounds like the rape of Nanking. Australia and Polynesian regions had plummeted down to the bottom of the radioactive oceans. Perhaps, the worst fate had occured to the Americas. The former continents of the Americas had some of the highest ecological varieties and massive breadths of land: tundra, desert, plain, tropical rainforest, temperate forest, boreal forest... Nothing had remained as they were. The unbroken mass of land now known as the New World Federation was part of the eastern North America.

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Ghastly Path Drags to the Haritaki Woods III / Anesthetic Gravity

 Chapter 4 (Cont.)

I was born in Neuronusk, a city near the antipodal end of the breadth of land that bears Tatterstown, Painicipality, Steinstadt, Gauntville; all of these, and more, were parts of nations across the former continent now known as the New World Federation... Nuclear weaponry were already reaching cataclysmic power when they were being developed during the great war before the ultimate great war. Following the aftermath of the prior great war's nuclear destruction, many of the old world were utterly shook. Nations had formed a new, more steadfast global alliance from the debris of the one before; the one which could not avoid nuclear warfare. Global representatives enacted the old principles to stronger degree and introduced new ones. Everyone was saying the same mantra: nuclear weaponry must be ceased permanently for humanity's sake. What could be the decisive move here? Nullify the warheads. Keep the research for the sake of science. Despite the reiteration of global alliance, many factors had hung the circumstances over a lulling furnace, by an untrustworthy candlerope. The factors: the hunger for hegemony, the need to dominate, the paranoia of being subjugated. Some nations had claimed the alliby of technological research: on keeping the warheads strictly for the necessity of scientific progress— their false rationale of being in the headspace of war by merit of curiosity. Regardless of the global coalition, many nations with existent nuclear arsenal kept them as they were, and went on to refine them. Some nations which did not develop warheads during or after the second global war, went on to build them out of their own volition. The great powers, which rose to hegemony following the aftermath of the second great war, started imposing various sanctions on the new developers of nuclear weapons. These powers concluded that these nations were the insurgents of the global alliance: the dissolver of the safety net. They convicted them, all while keeping their own arsenal and keeping on refining them. After a series of events, the nuclear technology had reached unsurmountable destructive potential in theory. It didn't take long for the theoretical estimations to come realised in practice. The totem of alliance which was hanging by the thread of promise had melted by the infernal, surging fire of pride, greed and vengeance. As it fell into the unfathomable depths of the furnace below, so did the bombs fell all over the old world. The whole world was enveloped in a diseased abyss. The clandestine safety protocols were instrumental in preserving packets of humanity, the packets which in turn were obsessively selected for maximum viability. Akin to breathtakingly rare and supernatural intumescent coating that has to be used with painstaking wisdom and economy. Great nations around the world had sacrificed their land, resources, population to ensure the select zones were completely unharmed. When the totem was dissolving in the furnace, a few splinters had made peace in the fire, peaceful in the illusion of safety. These splinters' external demeanour handshaked with the all-surrounding fire with smile, knowing that their internal molecules and molecular bonds were not agitated by the fire. Soon the splinters had strange waves emanating from within. These waves gradually cooled the furnace: first, the previously unfathomable volumes of flames had started withering away. Till there were no longer flailings of flames around the splinters but only the cold, unfeeling grates of the furnace. 

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Coloured of Unknowingly Spilt Palette III / Hymnen