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This is my message to the enemies of Time. I speak to the Destroyers of what was, what is, and what is to come. After this, no plot conceived against Time will hold sway.

Imagine your mind floating on a blanck star field.

Grids and guides surround you, leading you out and far away.

Imagine a hole at the top of Saturn. Kronos say flow through it. Well of course I did and you start seeing black and eventually it's more black than cube.

Picture Akshobhya Buddha doing that lotus shit directly on top of a crystal clear sea. His reflection is perfectly mirrored in the still water. It's like there's two Buddhas. You view them from the shore. Akshobhya, the divine name of tenacity. You reach down into the sand and pick it up and each grain is a fine-cut diamond and each diamond has infinite reflectivity. There's a million points of light and Everything stretches in all directions.

Go on down to the holy levels and you can't tell sky from sea anymore. Out of the mist come faces of stone on the ends of long markers. They are the faces of those buried beneath the markers. Anunnakis slice you up before you can contemplate more.

"It's like moss." ໓ said. Things all over the floor here haha . . . wood panels in your bedroom just make it more endearing. The carpet's static all over. Calendar - It was 2009, year like a spike. ໓ saw you later in a Google Earth Transphere but it wasn't how it was.

Mullah on the mount, 6:09 AM, a short walk from Kufa. "Teach me a dream of love" say the disciple. "Well here it is," says Mullah, and without flinching shows him his ornate timepiece. "It is all clear to me now." whisper disciple.
A whole meadow of purple amaranths and they're all in bloom. The sky locks in sync with the firmament in a 270° sphere and, lying down you feel like you're falling up, Up through the prariegrass and distant lapis mountains . . Falling apart through a deep blue boundary, feeling like a paper bag wafted by the breezes, tumbling along with the autumnell leafs lol . I keep fallin, the beats make me fallin asleep. The earth and mud and grass between my fingers winding and reaching out to my touch?? Under the half orange moon eyes rollin back and you feel every leaf of every plant curl at your fingertips and 10,000 layers of bog can't stop you and that vectorized synchronous harmony becomes apparent in all living things. Stimulated never, that faintly glowing always . .

Meet me under the moon🌗

"The Pro-Time Terrorcell was infiltrated by the CIA in 2025 but at that time it was already being backed by the Mossad and the Vatican due to a top-secret dual takeover operation 20 years prior . . . the current situation is like when an undercover cop gets arrested by one in uniform, you know. The Terrorcell as it stands is not even important, because the core of the Cell has been a honeypot for Pro-Timers ever since Hitler strategically seized the original organization from his bunker in 1945. No true Pro-Timers associate with the Terrorcell and they haven't for decades. As far as we can tell, the real Pro-Time organization as of Q3 2031 is fully nomadic. It's the elephant in the room but when you look at the elephant it darts out of your vision. just like quickshilver. Thish here is the reashon Time hasn't been squashed yet, genthlemenn . . . thish ish our misshion as it schtands . . . to perpetuate the genoshide of sheconds and minutes!". The Senator coughs and takes a step back. Presentation folds in on itself.

You're on a long highway. New Mexico 567. Southwest psuedopassage. You make a symbol with your arms: left forearm pointing towards the heavens, right arm bent at a 90° angle at elbow, right hand fingertips meeting the left hand elbow at another 90° angle. Chains of gold explode and burst all across the sky. That's how you leave The Flaming World.

The Flaming World technically consists of everything that isn't Time. There is nothing in The Flaming World but love, and spiritually, you're on 3%, patrón.

WAR IS THE SMOKING GUN OF "CLIMATE CHANGE" AND "VICE VERSA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!". ong!

No-chamber broadcast from an undisclosed location: a masked man sits on a stool with two guards behind him. "Message to the enemies of Time: There's nothing you can do. We are at a Time-production rate of 120% capacity. We are bringing the 4th dimension into the 3rd, 2nd, and 1st, and beyond. No more destroyers. Further cycles are safe as far as we can tell. Time is passing, but it isn't passing away. It is never too late for the future." The broadcast ends quick.

We needed to start a publication. It's hard to get people on the street to pick up a 4d pamphlet. So the solution was to map our messages on the vertices of interlinking hypercubes . . . it was a blessing and a curse, because the enemies couldn't read it but neither could our potential recruits. So we gave homeless and schizophrenics decoder rings and tried our best to keep track of them all. The decoder rings light up the hypercubes and let you read Time itself in the language of your choice. Double, triple, quadruple crosses are all too common in this buisiness, can't be too careful . . . it was at that moment, fabricating up the pamphlets, that we realized that we would win this war, but it wouldn't be easy. Never give up, because if Being is in Time, then nihlism is the Hatred of Time.

You fall on up to the Gaüform lands. Inhuman velocity zone. Deserts stretch everywhere, and the Gaüforms walk on towards exile. "The guide told me that Silicon deposits are quote-unquote 'all over the place'. The sand drifters love that shit, but apparently you have to watch out for Selenium pockets in the rock," say Jefe. "They will mess you up, señor." The sand drifters are very fragile. Mostly, they're made out of wafting silk and breaths. Before you can enquire further, you're lurched up back through the whirling sky, quick dragged down into the blackness, and come out of the bottom of Saturn into Reverse Hell. The rings have been replaced by a massive, beautiful clock. Ptolemy, revered Pro-Timer, must've built it, because it hurts to look at . . . The teleological attractor ticking away at the end of Flaming nonTime.


A thousand sparkling NeoCities. Teeming faces bustle through the streets. A million flickering candles light every window, and every citizen warmed by the light of a decaying jpeg, long-time journeying into a dark gray snow.