Pinned toot

Non-humanity is deserving of as much personhood as Humanity. No matter what you are, you have Worth.

Some of the earliest infiltration technologies of the noosphere era were memetic sigils carved into thumbprint ridges. The striated flesh presses to scanner glass and the resulting image makes the security viewers' brains run thick with cyan phosphene jags and red with bleeding afterimage scanlines. Others were AI-specific, creating the precise patterns to disrupt what precious simulated neurons the algorithm minds held, reducing thought to a black and white tessellation of epidermal making.

Your life is a labyrinth wire wound through one branch of possibility space and can be terminated at the point of your death. The applications of these strands are limited, but if you like we could switch it on for you, so that, after you die, you'll still have a neon bend through every path you took, one that can glisten like a burnt-out lamplight in the evening. The electrical costs will, of course, be exorbitant, but it'll be a nice token of remembrance for those who care to care.

Profiction: Stories detailing real events that are yet to happen. Will be banned in 32 states for ruining the surprise.

Planets and moons in syzygy merge theologies. Invertebrates in the red depths of Europan vents pray for metal from Hephaestus, while human occultists arrange into the sigils formed by Venusian bacteria in hymnic flight.

Polyhydra: For every face cut off two more take its place. Yet to be vanquished by any hunter geometer

Divinity is nothing more than an assemblage of disposable plastics, tupperware, and refuse. Anyone can commit idolatry if they build it the right way

Angel of Revolvers

Head ringed by concentric bullet aureola

Cloak masking the depths of handgun percussive smolder

Blow a hole through my heart

Blow through and let the leaden powder of my jammed soul fuel our army for centuries to come

Drugs, drinks, heresy: the ideal way to spend a night after burning down a temple to His Monist and evading the autoarchons

With dreams of electric sheep fully slotted into the cultural strata, AI neuroengineers felt it would be clever to make the booting screens of their sapiofiles a loop of mechanical ungulates prancing ad infinitum. While no longer in practice, the first memories of many files are in those loops, seeing a swarm of creatures you cannot identify traversing a darkness you are only an infant to

cw: gore 

Did you know that horses are the three-dimensional cross section of one singular, higher-dimensional hyperhorse?

They're always sniffing you.

The last transmissions were from an always receding point. They told us of rainbow stars, of plants wrapping around novas, of vines grasping the galaxies together. They told us that, even when heat death did them apart, they had life, and that they would be happy.

One day galactic expansion drove them past the point of no return and we never heard from them again. And, so, in their honor, we grew our own vines.

When we sent the USS Babel into orbit all that came back down were the scraps. On an engine fragment a single message was burnt, done hastily with a blowtorch:

DON'T GO HIGHER
STARS ARE NOT LIGHTS — TEETH

We knew it was true when the bodies returned. We couldn't stop going up, though — we knew they'd developed a taste for the stuff, and we didn't want more than just their drool to arrive.

Fear the atom more than you fear God. God can be bargained with; the atom cannot. When the radiation hits all that will decide your fate is nature, and nature is thoughtless.

God is in the rafters, slowly crawling down. God is in the ceiling, webbing the cracks with his hands. God is in the stairwell, waiting for every step that'll fall and rebound its noise through his empty wooden frame

Psionics can be rationalized as an advanced programming. Firewalls, adblockers, and virus checkers are all necessary to ensure a safe psychic uplink to any collective unconscious databases, as anyone — including yourself — can code the mind into performing whatever actions they want.

When ghosts die their bodies crystallize, rising up to the ceiling of the afterlife and embedding themselves in its rock, forming phantasmal constellations with their pulsating, amber glow. They forever shine on the dead below

Ego death oft precedes an ego rebirth. What wriggles from this selfhood cocoon and splatters to the floorboards is best left ignored, regardless of how tempting its whispers of psychic truth and many-limbed consciousness may be

Deicide has extensive definitions in the court of divinity. Some cases count as godslaughter, such as the accidental collision of an autochurch into a wayward demiurge, and premeditated deicide, where the intent to kill is planned and executed down to the utmost ritual. In the later case a sentencing to afterdeath is common

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