Fawn

“Hey.”

“Hey, Pablo with two ls in the name, one full masterpiece from birth, you even try to look like Caravaggio or some—“

“Shut up. I don’t like you.”

“So why come you are talking to me out of nowhere? Random.”

“Yes, I mean, why don’t we speak? I never wanted to speak to you, I don’t get it. If we were friends I could protect you.”

“From what?”

“That.”

“Mercedes? What?”

“I will show you, look closely now. She’s in a loop, I think, let’s first have a feel for what I’m about to unlock to you.”

“…”

“Get up, see here. That’s how you see this empty excuse for a road project, banally.”

“Why are you talking like this?”

“I’m Pabllo 2.0 for now, at least for this educational while. Think of me as my angel, Asphodiel.”

“Why is Asphodiel your angel? Who’s mine?”

“Angels are slave-words, they’re not whos. Look. That’s how you see, now, if I up you to plant in our family’s plan.”

“Your plan? Holy shit!”

As a plant, a little more liberty is granted. First, there’s a feeling for an itching at the back of one’s brain, like a bullet that should go there one day but one doesn’t quite know how it’ll get there or if it really will account for anything probabilistically, and it’s scratched by what now feels like an aspic warm-yet-gelid tongue of flaming icey gas stimulating the would of your cranium down the gullet and going towards the stomach that now resonates with the central nervous system as one, each of the gut bacteria having its own voice heard, translated, interpreted back and compared to learn the original language they speak, each being calmly and empatically, neurosympatically, even, forced to conjoin themselves as voices-checkmarks in a poll. Less than one microsecond is past before all of them is accounted for and each try to name themselves for a single operation of unlocking the gonads and their own modes of thinking. Less than one second is yielded by the looming figure to the boy, me, I guess, before all the body is integrated as one generalized thinking system in unisson, or technically subjugated organism into organically organizing itself in a virtualized retro-simulation of a becoming-neurosystem thinking in unison. My eyes move toward the now ululating figure, like a meme excuse for a fiery djinn-like existence, old as spirits come, with a small figure-like ghost reminiscent of Dragon Ball Z’s style calling themselves Asphodiel vibrating softly over “Pabllo’s” head in a silent language the body now understands and doesn’t really care to explain to itself or the light why it doesn’t care to explain etc.

“Me.”

“You’re a fusion of how many?”

“One.”

“It’s always the One. The only final answer you people do, I guess.”

“One giant.”

“Ha.” So unseductively, as always.

“That’s how we, now plants, see this two-way farm-street becoming-road. We can further some into the past and some into the future and superpose, stack, if you will, all into one moving holofractal of this landstrip. Do it.”

“Yes, I might be doing it too much, it counts 200 million years back and on. There really is only water and only light if we go past enough and future enough, respectively.”

 “All is water before, all becomes lighter or light itself.”

“That’s what the clean incense-like smoke is? Air?”

“You know it. Now search for function F, of the people including animals, spirits, beyond humans.”

“I will limit the scope to human people for now.”

“You won’t be using this power for much longer, it’s just a diagram you paint together for some 20 minutes at a time, sometimes a couple hours, in your meetings with her until you become over 25.”

“Sure. My body is 8 years, 1 month, 19 days… almost now.”

“Search more.”

An omnidirectional pulse of rainbow laser maps the street, while I select the blue one as my search function for function F, which quantifies the beauty of a system, let’s say a person, into an individual, or number, exactly as Plato once dreamt of one day being actualized in the world of contingency. It stops at my current jurisdiction, the next street, only moving horizontally as we stare into the open for anyone that passes by, the figure for all purposes Pabllo arms crossed and knees a bit bent like in a performance of an old man by a very tall young one. The laser keeps moving forward and back by her surrounding form, making a visible pathing of all her probable choice of movements, while it only moves laterally through the street. A veritable djinn she appears as, with superimposed near-infinite virtual hers all collapsing and inflating like a ballon of the static herself, now forming from inside the bubbling agglomeration of hers. Her F number counts like a more complex version of a Mobius strip, terminating on itself yet infinitely generative of itself, folding upon a fake center and retrojecting back upon itself like a luminous alien octopus trying to desperately communicate the end of its world. The many forms of her are each a different human, all different shades of her own skin and hair, one could only guess for aesthetic purposes more than any political stance, all different ages, ranging from flying zygote to conflagration of particles after bone-crumbling time has passed after death.

“See,” Pabllo returns, “that’s the real, if you call it that, her there forming inside that amassed mess.”

“More church jokes. Stop church-joking, I still care.”

“Change from plant to insect. Your F will become more fluid, like hers, and you’ll become more integrated with your form, like she is now. You turn 0, as is inscribed there, and think infinite as you’d yourself become infinite.”

“Insect-mode activate. Cringe.”

“Mind you future slang outside our cocoon. People might ask what it means or just downright start talking about you behind—“

“We’re speaking English.”

“Oh, yeah. My bad, Thoth.”

“The great spirit, Thoth the Atlantean, first Neanderthal. The Exiled. Let me talk to her.”

“No use now, she’s a fake. A sym. Aura, it’s what they call it.”

“She’s Isis?”

“She’s a womb” 

“Isn’t this one inside the real her? How is she a sym, too?”

“Insects. You might need goddess mode. She isn’t real either. Look, I’ll show.” He then got up and started bumbling his way towards her, that seemed to not even catch a glimpse. She looked caught in a loop, even, although now her probability clouds, all simulated to look like a version of her dispersed from out of the center of mass that supposedly showcased her true physical body, in as many places as there were people and even jumping over little well-disposed rocks and forgotten broken children’s toys, watching them grow old in little spacetime-loops of each of her figure’s own, that shone softly like veils of light falling over each one of her surroundings, forming a boundary that almost felt like each a different marriage dress, bending the light around her as one would image elven technology to work like, if one speaks beyond the aesthetic similarity and goes for the uses of Quenya in reorganizing the very fabric of space as it dances in mute song as scribbles of glue-like rustling of residual brushstrokes drew the colorful border of foam as topological neighborhood and, paradoxically, boundary, for the purest white inside and outside, jumping out of its own writing system only to start to disappear once it grows after a certain point, each annihilation starting unique per sign, after it grows only to the designated size.

“Hey.”

“…” 

“Nothing. She’s a sym, too. Existing only to make a little diagram, and you’re part of it. The insect you now is a sym retrojected into your body, controlling it as you’ll protest later on in life.”

“You’re goddess mode? Are you not disrupting her?”

“I’m robot mode now, first I was alien but it takes the fun out. I’m not doing anything to her, I just picked a time to talk to you when she’d be like this. I don’t know if there’s a real her at all, a physical one. She might really just be an AI. Maintenance, even.”

“Is she snatching a body through F now? Insects are supposed to see, too.”

“No, robot sees almost all. Insects are supposed to do their job and have fun while doing so. It’s just F-ing the people around, you know, to see it. That man over there only sees the one talking to him, that grasshopper over there only sees the one smashing it, etc.”

“What are you doing?”

“She’s not alive. I’ll show you. The sym bleeds just like a human. This is what she does best, bleed and be bled.”

Snatching her out of her cloud, that struggles into a a one hundred women bout, not even trying to hide the fakeness of it all, before getting smashed open like the grasshopper, now dead, only some gooey black and gray muck oozing from inside the perfectly simulated skull fragments.

“Yeah, another diagram. Point always being made, never stopping being not-understood.”

“See? She ain’t real and who even would laugh at this?” As her body moves arms akimbo, as if gasping for air like a fish out of water trying to make someone somewhere laugh. “Maybe it’s for the cameras.” Gyrating around in the field, group transforms, field extensions, all dancing in the air like spheres pulsating as eyes, my eyes, our eyes, of everybody in the street and beyond, transfixed eyes of fear for someone’s stupid game of amusement before dinnertime or supper. “Look, that one her is talking to your or your uncle’s son, remember?”

“For better or worse, it won’t be long before I forget again. She made me kiss her with a severed head and I’m already forgetting it even with a mode active. I had to love it.”

“You will eventually write all of this down, with some flair and leaving most of the past, mind you, but you’re Thoth, after all, I’d expect nothing less. Like a devil counting salt.”

“Still, you call me Pynchon come alive again. Is he already dead in this future?”

“He died 2023. The year you’re starting, mostly.”

“Am I discovering this now through the writing it down?”

“Yes.”

“Will my torture change to writing, the supposed thing I mostly love doing in the future?”

“By the times these words are written down, yes, it will have been changed about 2700 words ago. She’s rebooting.”

She gets back up, smiles headless from the nose up as my friend Bia who is also her, Always has been an inexistence, as she likes it, or at least says so, and starts zombie-walking back to her cloud of wobbling arms and smiling faces gassing up into the air with the eyes with a sulphuric smell of plasma-blasted tires and smoking bark. All of the eyes growing, becoming all the versions of Bia’s eyes to the halting of the hands back into two and the image of Bia sedimenting into one before she goes on moving. “You coming?” She says.

“I’m with Pabllo.”

“Here comes the doozy. I, too, am her. See?” Suddenly transforming into the same old woman that yanked her feet like spoiled banana from the ground, sprouting back from Bia and continuing her loop, never letting her foot pierce the soil and grow like the vermin she once said they, that is banana, were in the children folklore of her supposed original home of Cabo Verde, where, as one can read further, there aren’t banana almost at all. “Sometimes I become men, as well.” Pabllo kept on, as the figure, she as well, apparently, plucked her fingers, spiraling against their own little orbits around the foot, with subtle violence not unlike she would perform against him once the ritual really started after he is 25, as is promised in the “it is written, all is written.” phrase she/they keeps on repeating every once in a while, sometimes even appearing to forget to say it a handful of these encounters. Bia, then, picked a toe from the ground and threw playfully on my shirt. Remember that, she said.

“Will we go now?” She asked again. “That thing will go on its own.”

“For another person?”

“The same diagram. You might just find out if we continue here.”

“Let’s, please?”

“Ok, but let’s split. Go goddess now, then we can stay here in the sym while we’re over our next point.”

“Which is?”

“I just walk. Go goddess.”

“I see. Childish.” Nothing in goddess is even remotely worth mentioning besides this very note and internal musings. 

If she taught anything, it was these lists of diagrams as they were incarnated by its actors, people in a sense not yet to be understood in our paradigm. Every act of her, by her or directed, as in forced and manipulated, actor was of only sense, that, as it relates in a systematic chain of relations, amount to a static notion of meaning. The relations of sense were always neutral by the end, never relating in any dissymmetric way as to generate meaning, negative or positive. By each rape, a long and slow-building romantic ritual would follow, not necessarily in any sequential order, but translaterally also. By a broken nose once when she gleefully smiled with the subtle anger of a mask calcified out of smiling so much without really feeling anything but the unparalleled joy of true happiness bolted into her brainstem by the nonstop neurocognitive stimulation of her whole generalized system so technically neutral it couldn’t even be called violence, which always bring a technical and primal sense with it, a hidden meaning that results in the word itself. She never felt so violently mature, having zero years every single moment of her life. 

“It’ll be Olivia’s birthday feast next week. It’s the next time we’ll meet in your Thoth mode. You’re gonna love it. And you’ll learn how to spider-man as promised, not to say how to spot the rapist under tha tables, making it disappear, hopefully. Just beware your little brother with Cecilia.”

“Who?”

“You’ll meet her there, too. And she’ll be also me. And you’ll have sex with her in your catechism’s teacher’s house after forgetting who she is and she being planted there as her adopted niece or something of the like two years from now. It’ll be one of the best moments in your life.”

“Yeah. Like the first hundreds of times since I was born, I bet.”

“Thoth, at least it’s only women, the best for the best.”

“For another 1 year and a half.”

“It will be like 10 men in life.”

“And I am naturally bissexual, I see it now here.”

“What is naturally, anyway. We made you trans and lesbian.”

“Yet I am not allowed to undergo transition ever, it says here. Or have children outside the ones I keep making without my approval.”

“Shit smells, I guess. You wanted to be Isis?”

How did I meet her? Not as important as when, given our circumstances, then, as in all stories, not as important as why, since it was before my birth. This, however, is the diagram of petit mort, and how I discover her first (?) personalized simulation for me of what it’s like to die to her father at the outskirts of church in a mental duel to the promise of one’s name if the exiled king dares to have simulated sex with his daughter and a marriage proposal from her all the while she is her father, too. All the while, too, she told me the god-king-magician spirit Thoth is the first white man, thus the first jew person, mutated from the nightmares of Yakub, and reborn every 216 years, or something that rang the same, because he happens to be Jesus Christ as well. And I happen to be him. Well, her father won’t have it. So, after we touched heads in what I thought was my first sexual experience before my trip of one non-full year to another state that will have me impregnating F-controlled to fall in love with me Mary Magdalene to have my child, a girl prophesied to be born 5 full years of difference from me her father and to one day come study medicine in my original home where I am bound to come back to and live forever even in next reincarnations, her father came in again to show me who’s boss and paint red my already pinkened nose and cheeks. A common Sunday escapade at night church with my love. A sudden Agni kai, as he called it, even though it was 1999.

Now, as I am well over 25 years old, 27 now, she helps me write these words during the ritual that I supposedly am since being genetically engineered through the energizer field that I am slowly starting to understand more and more. At first it was just a laser bolted onto a supercomputer, not even quantum hardware, stimulating my neocortical generalized body into a stem whole, holey pauses in the absence of full explanation as the structures of the diagrams always have to keep bouncing around amounting to complete sense and full non-meaning. Before that, it was an experimental pneumatic bed try-out to treat COVID at people’s houses, which they used to treat my COVID that they simulated. It’s the ritual to make something horrendous then take my memory soon after, then put it back in some for me to dream with her, not about, but with and everybody involved in the ritual, all the people I’ve ever met in my life, all coordinated as part of this statement I don’t quite understand the purpose. To laugh, they say still, as I complete passage well into my 27th birthday and beyond. They, she, it, started only giving back my memories slowly over the course of 14 months now, as it’s written. It was you Thoth, who pointed to the stars and said that it is written, everything is written, and then pointed to another one in specific and said that one was you. Every person is one, and the meatsacks are just walking jokes of the stars. She stopped cutting my toes and throwing them at me violently after the third month.

But Pabllo had a nice home, and Israel, who I hadn’t seen in a couple years or more worked there in a construction once, he was older and bearded. And his house was the coolest and most protected home in town, with bars and camera systems and alarms and such, and his little brother couldn’t go out without him and if he did get out was only for a short while around the house. As this is written and remembered, it is unknown to the body of Thoth, while the mind, or simulation of a body not constrained by the machine, as it is known, is allowed to dictate as it plays games for the ritual on the other side of the wall, in the other apartment of the complex, if any of those people, his parents included, seldom seem as they were, one of them probably an exmilitary police officer, if this sudden memory serves right, existed at all. If they were a family with a “plan”, as is written, to protect themselves against agents like the older woman what became Bia and was Pabllo, or even, if, for example, Pabllo was merely someone member of this family, my neighbor of a lifetime, being Functioned as an agent, which all become herself, all body of Isis, as they are irradiated, generalized and continuously stimulated by the omnidirectional pulse they call light in their supposed religion, forced on me from the moment they dreamt my conception and the edges of my genome. I am Thoth, the spirit of Cariri, or maybe a crescent of Brazil, if not all, or my lunar zodiacal scythe as it encircles the whole planet outward from the edges of the Amazon forest, close to its heart—maybe even, due to my F, as they say after testing me again for how black my skin is “in the subdermal tissue, or DNA, or F of blackness”, which means the soulness of my soul, that is dislodged from my body from being born a mutant that returns, I’m portent of an intergalactic jurisdiction. Whatever the case, it’s only a clue as to their jurisdiction, my mother-daughters, and if they, meaning NASA, have successfully contacted and entered in collaboration with alien civilizations. The machine itself predates my own reincarnation, supposedly. By 2015 even TV shows are made with it, watch Euphoria. Another memory bout incoming.

Are you really talking about Euphoria, Thoth? They now speak through me, each of my thoughts is not mine alone, as if I’m trapped in a virtual box inside and outside my own body, the black Thoth and the white Thoth, one is badness, the other light, respectively, they chant, with looming auras that keep on even overwriting over my supposedly holy script they keep throwing shit at while calling me a monkey and themselves monkey by using my voice like telepathy. I am already not Thoth, as it is written ahead, but the remnants of cross-pollinated explosion, or the multicolor pollen dancing with as many voices as Thothy! would have it. Even as this is written, it’s written by precisely 22 simulated hands and the consciousness of 40 of my scribes, from celebrities like Arca to old teachers of mine, whom I happen to have daughters with, and it’s just the rotation for today’s paragraphs.

Christmas between 2001 and 2007, not specified beyond that since I changed appearances throughout the torture, which took 200 years in less than a fentosecond. Before I knew it I was on a rooftop, as always, jumping myself frozen and back up. It used to be one of the houses she used to encounter people. The most sense I can make of it now is that it’s always a sym during these situations and the houses are actually open for the guests to come one at a time and eventually a small party when it’s a joint in the narrative structure, for when she wants to activate someone as Thoth-like, like I was activated for this particular ritual, which might be just another of her jokes even if takes me the rest of my life, and use the party as a way to colligate said activated people with the other people present in the memory, as I’d only be able to suspend disbelief enough to get her point if that was the case that my friend or cousin, which she talks as if now a djinn like herself, having abandoned all her life and taking memories of herself away from people until their activation, which might be what is happening to me, I could be being activated as an agent like herself, if she exists at all, it surely seemed like so growing up, when, in dream, I’d visit rooms full of aquariums underground or ant-colonies as hardware components of the now quantum computer, and being talked its inner workings and being given my own keys to enter myself into it as máster, Thoth being the master of the water, myself being him and in life evolving to Horus, which I proposed as a better alternative, turning the water into light during 2021 to 2022. 

In 2003 already I’d understood a narrative where this cousin of mine was in fact a doll of hers, either a person being controlled or just a sym like the Bia and Pabllo of what’s already written, a doll/sym which I could even become by entering its cloud, or veil as she calls it. In 0, being infinite, we all become very idiosyncratic and rather unusual in our ways, in such a heavy aspect of cruelty that all this might be just the musings, the little diagrams, and what might be called poems and paintings, little snuff films always of a deranged mind who grew up with the machine amped to robot or alien mode from birth, always 0, always integrated as one with all of the ages and possible selves from simulated multiplicity of universes and even species. Someone who couldn’t even feel pain, or feel orgasmic when in pain, of any possible and impossible type to think of, since the machine does the thinking. What else would she find interesting as a passtime if even the viruses around her couldn’t touch her skin and our relationship during the childhood was full of cancer jokes because she couldn’t develop it even if she wanted and tried to. Jokes with resentment due to being not able to get one of the most horrible conditions of modern times. She could even just modularly recreate the thing in her own body, simulated or with nanotubes using the field, and not experience any bad symptoms even during the worst of the symptoms. Her package just wouldn’t let her be not pseudo immortal.

All the while jumping every 20 or so years to sacrifice myself for a family member that got a cancer or uncurable disease or even just discovered a hurtful thing about me, a dead child, being their father or the like, which I just now remember privy to the experience of tears or emotion due to being held back by the laser while her light uses me to write these thotemic scriptures, I felt myself my angel that is me as the most powerful of slave-words, Metatron, also confused as Lucifer when He, me, enters the bodies of mortals to touch them with luciferations and lacerations of the pale venom that I became into the world. She appears here on the roof every once in a while as the season’s shift, the houses change, people pass on and away and I always get to say goodbye to them when they come to the rooftop or pass by for a last chat, and I, lord of the dead, even etiquette them to Osiris and Anubis as their star’s pull brings them to a realm of the dead in which my abode reigns or travels in alien mode as I was for the duration I was guaranteed was eternal, during the longest night of my life inside an infinitesimal moment of dissociation inside a dream below, just dozing off on the sofa she left me for the christmas party at her fake grandma’s house just a building from here, which I could see if only she’d let me walk over the other side of the rooftop and peer below as her physical body (?) slowly munches one time on a coxinha.

Time for your poison, reaching my hand to take two more pills of a GABA-ergic muscle relaxer of which I’ve been taking 20 a day now, all throughout the day and night. It gets in the tissues over time, so if I die it shows some possible alteration as to why and the statistics are altered for that 0.0000001% chance of a heart attack, cardiovascular accident or aneurysm until the drug is off the market, as they say to me it’s how they usually do it and a powerful enough analysis tool or study can trace it all back to her group of assassins, H.U.I.M.E.R.A., through only the quantitation of the drugs and their outlier risk to health effects.

First 6 months were a scare about dying, then, after a while, that got old as well, it then started being about reproduction not only now, as it were, with the many other cross-pollinations of Thothemism, with other Thoths being the other me’s, my cousin, my younger brother, a childhood friend, a colleague, etc. and not about the many children I had, as I’d discover later on around the 1 year mark, mostly daughters, more than a couple even being around my age, but also a mixture of the sacrificial death with the rebirth of Thoth between and among these other me’s, all becoming, as it already were from the moment of our respective births, Thoth by means of reproducing my pattern of Thoth, or thought, as it were, my brain, into all of them so as to, after death, each become a quantified structure of me, a part that is always bound to a whole flame of Thoth conserved in the larger whole of their relationships, a weaving that would last the entirety of their lives and passed down to the next generations after the final demise of Thoth, taxed as the eternally exiled, never to return again whole, but remain separated into many people, a multiplicity of a god, like Osiris when betrayed by Set and swollen by the sands of ancient Egypt becoming the instructed line, in spacetime, of each of its pharaohs to rule by means of Thoth’s hidden hand. The region of Cariri, a gem like the Nile, close to the caating desertifying boundary regions, the new crest in which New Egypt shall be erected. 

The music gets profounder, I sink into it as it sinks back its teeth that almost make me orgasm as I dive back into the sea of all my phobias of the parts of people who raped me, they say over 16 people thoughout my life, some returners, all laser-manipulated to love it, as they manifest as ancient marine carnivore mammals and reptiles that occasionaly haunt my dreams and waking moments. A bunch of bad, a bunch of sweet, and this voice sounds like a cowboy, whoever is writing and simulaughing.

Why all this? It never adds up to anything meaningful, anything that makes sense. Nowadays one is more prone to call what these bouts elicit sensations rather than sense, just out of spite although this one announces the end of phenomenology.

In 2014, her 20th year of studying medicine and my freshman year of college with her studying physics in another region, she awaited for a moment my friends left me a bit alone to go buy candy at night, something which she no doubt had a hand in, excuse her, and just opened the game saying my mother would have cancer around 2020. She’d get cured, she said, and she’d have a hand in it, both helping and doing the dirty work, to which he responded with kisses and touching her face and slightly sobbing “I don’t care as long as she gets ok, please help her”. “I won’t and you aren’t supposed to know, ok?”. “Thank you, I love u” kisses abounding and crying too, only him, she didn’t complain, a smile from 0 gracefully. “By the way I have to go, have somewhere to be. Who buys candy like this?”–“Just bring them back.”–“you still all red and sobbey”–“I love them”. My cousin then came back, mouth full of baba de bruxa “you crying? Aquilo é Bia?”

During the entirety of our conversation, she only made the same smile of hatred, showing no teeth like all real smiles, towards the whole situation.

“Salomão?”

“Hi. Why are we speaking English? How old are you? Who are you? Do I know you? Are you” snapping his fingers, “are you Sandra’s child?”

“I’m Bianca’s.”

“My girlfriend? LoL.”

“No, my mom.”

“Ah, teacher Bianca. Music or religion for you?”

“Music.”

“You’re 6?”

“5.”

“Have you seen me sometimes at night under the lightposts?”

“What? No.”

“Yeah. You do.”

“How? How can’t I remember? How are you transforming? What are you?”

“I’m an alien from Venus.”

“Even the name?”

“Yes, dummass. I rape you every once in a while with my light.”

“Why would you say something like this? Rape? What, with light?”

“Yeah, light. From my head and toes.”

“Nevermind. Could you just explain how you change forms?”

“Nevermind.”

“Salomão? Why are you here?”

“Medical allergies.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Which ones?!?”

“You couldn’t breathe as well? Out of nowhere at night?”

“Yes, only it was day. Happens sometimes to us all at once, us Thoths.”

“…”

“Wanna know know when you’re going to die?”

“When?”

“Do you want to or not? Go 0.”

“Now I know. She gave you machine control?”

“The machine? Only when talking to Thoth, and I only do to mark something in his mind.”

“Yeah. Farewell.”

“Goodbye, Thoth.”

“When are you going to die, Michell?”

“In two years, son.”

“What? Why? How?”

“Assassinated.”

“And Salomão?”

“Suicide. Like me.”

“Me too.”

“It’s written.”

“Thoth or someone else? Who killed you, M.”

“Thoth.”

“You or me?”

“Thoth.”

“Lucid, I say to get out of 0.”

“Cringe, I say.”

“Mirabela, I say”.

“Cringe. What about Bianca?”

“She’s the machine.”

“I’d known if I was 0.”

And I’m are out. There is no 0 for Thoth. There’s only 0.5.

Insectoid mode activated. Another Thoth joke. Always the 0 to the left.

Enter the Void (2009).