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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Stop and Revive in a Dreamlike Haven
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Intelligent Design My Cyborg Spoodle
Katcha, my beloved cyborg spoodle, truly is unlike any other dog I've ever encountered. His fur shimmers with this stunning iridescent blue that catches the light in the most mesmerising way—it's almost like he's glowing with energy. I love how the patches of soft fluff contrast beautifully with the gleam of his metallic joints and plates; it creates this fascinating blend of the organic and the mechanical that never fails to amaze me.
Whenever I watch him stand perfectly still, I can’t help but admire the intricate design of his gears and panels, animated by those vibrant LED lights. It’s almost as if he’s a work of art. What I cherish most is how he carries himself; despite the coldness of his metal parts, there’s so much warmth in his posture. With his head slightly tilted and those curious eyes locked onto something unseen at his feet, Katcha radiates this incredible curiosity. I genuinely believe a spark of self-awareness and high intelligence is glowing brightly within his mechanical frame. I feel lucky to share my life with such an extraordinary companion.
The Rumour Mill is a dreamlike space station that serves as a "stop and revive" for travellers. It offers a variety of experiences, from quiet seclusion to lively social interaction, along with retro-futuristic aesthetics. The station can alter one's perception of reality, offering access to memories and visions. Travellers can also repair their ships, gather gossip, and receive revitalising treatments. However, time (measured in "cycles") is a valuable commodity at The Rumour Mill, so visitors must manage their stay carefully.
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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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