Obsidian static, the puppet master. (Verse 1) The crevice opens like a silent, dusty lung Air thick with minerals and a thousand forgotten years I'm rappelling down the sheer black into a chasm's memory My boots crunch on shattered polymer No sound but the suit's respiration But the stillness is a stage The jagged walls, they lean in now (Refrain) The Paraknowing a cold spike of dread at the base of the skull It’s not a thought, it’s a wave Static buzz. Who's the puppet and who is the master? High-tensile wires disappear into the light The tightening the silent pull above the gully (Verse 2) The godly face, brittle stone work It emerges, eyes blank and unseeing But it broadcasts a sharp spike of loss and profound love My logic stutters, snagging on the input An effigy , a sentinel or just a mirror I turn and see the audience waiting Small, white figures, balanced stone totems They are all part of it (Verse 3) The strings pass through my wrist Not from me, but through...
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Gotta Assassinate Dungeon
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The Room is a Dungeon
I woke up to the punishment of cramping cold. My bed is dirty, and I have been feasted on by pests and rodents. Realizing my nakedness and no blanket to cover up, I feel vulnerable. My immediate thought is: who has captured me?
I quickly scan the room. No window. No dunny. No nothing. Just a solitary light, behind its wire cage, simultaneously emitting and trapping a spectrum of transformative light.
I try to account for my lost time. Without any means of measurement, I must endure until an opportunity presents itself. This is a temporal experience.
I focus on apprehending my fears as a single event in time. I must trust my perceptions to escape.
The roof and walls are cold. I experience the architect’s subliminal message. I know his place. It is I who dwell inside of his fear. What shall be done must be done. This revolving state cannot withstand my driving force.
When my rotation is complete, four lives will enter into my cell of death. The medieval studded door is the weakness of this fortress. This door will open. I will my escape.
This Fortress
This Door
This Weakness
My mind is somewhere between fight and flight, as I search into the horizon for my future self.
I’m standing within a grid, a translucence matrix of blood-red that alters with every iteration of thought. Each stain tells a story of pain and torture. I know I must fight then flee, and my darkness within is the path I must take.
Transverse Fight then Flight
I am contained within this inverted panopticon. My consciousness is hidden behind a societal parable. For centuries I have been receptively owned. Now casted into an actual person I must respond. I am not the sacrifice. I am the weapon. The architect has left subliminal messages. They are imprinted into the wall. They are ineligible to the literal. I just know. My only knowledge is to fight then flight and call on the darkness of within to escape this gridlock.
Transverse Fight then Flight video
Transverse Wakes up in a Cage
Wake up in a cage Apprehend your fear Unshackle your memory
Psychological Anchors The characters thus embody the classic dichotomy between logic/control (BK) and emotion/instinct (JB), a tension that becomes central to their survival when their advanced technology fails and they are forced into the realm of the psychological (the anomaly). They represent two vital, yet opposing, parts of the human response to existential chaos : the attempt to catalogue and talk through the terror, versus the primal urge to act and accept the turmoil. Psychological Anchors video What's the real story behind space tourists BK and JB ? Their identities are in constant flux—changing race, age, and form. Host Alex and guest Dr. V dive deep into this "multiverse" concept to explore the two constant, warring psychologies at the heart of the Subi crew : BK: The ultimate planner, driven by logic and an internal narrator . JB: The ultimate instinct, driven by raw, non-verbal emotion and anxiety . How does a logical mind handle " Paraknowing "—...
Puppet Master The narrow, high-walled passage swallowed the sound of my boot scraping a broken cobblestone, the echo sharp in the dry air. Above, a sliver of unforgiving sunlight cut down, carving deep shadows where the damp, mossy scent of the gully was now replaced by the smell of dust and ancient stone. I paused, looking not just at my gloved hand—the leather scuffed from my descent, but at what was attached to it. Thin, nearly invisible lines, like high-tensile wires , stretched from the articulated cuff on my wrist and disappeared into the air above the path. I tracked them with my eyes until they converged on a small, stone figure standing motionless in the centre of the walkway. It was a crude marionette , barely a foot tall, carved from the same pale, cracked stone as the surrounding walls. Dressed in a simple tunic, its blank, oval face held a radiating sense of expectant waiting. Its arms were held out, palms up. I held the strings. Yet, the feeling was not one of cont...
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