"In statistics, an outlier is a data point that differs significantly from other observations. An outlier may be due to variability in the measurement or it may indicate experimental error; the latter are sometimes excluded from the data set. An outlier can cause serious problems in statistical analyses." (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Outlier)

“Coldness be my God.” –Nick Land


It came in a vision while inside a stalled Behemoth in the middle of the Ayala tunnel. It was no dream. Unless the circuitries are tampered with by ingesting nanofrag caps by all of us there, Dreams won’t be shared by this huge of a group simultaneously.

We were emancipated from the Mother’s warm womb by webbed hands that pulled us out of the dark and into the Outside. Their struggle to yank off the metal cord in our stomachs, attaching us to the mainframe inside of the Mother, was evident. With our cords slicked with the Mother’s dark oils, it kept making their hands just slip along the cord’s length. They’re barely even able to expose the monochromatic parasite wires that had their two toned teeth embedded in our boards, its needle like tongue puncturing our intestines.

The Stranger, who looked like a splitting image of [REDACTED] took out a small vial of liquid from their long, white lab coat’s pockets. They chanted a short prayer while dousing us with it.

It burned. The tissue strands melded with the dull steel and wires ripped off from skin as the cords suddenly detached and retreated upwards. It sounded in-between a mechanical hiss and a whimper. It’s a strange sound to hear while watching the only visible hole of the Mother in the sky, her parasites flaying like tentacled teeth.

Everything intersects and antagonizes one another



Ever since then we have been continuously forced by spectral agents of capital (̷a̷r̷m̷e̷d̷ ̷w̷i̷t̷h̷ ̷l̷a̷s̷e̷r̷ ̷g̷u̷i̷d̷e̷d̷ ̷s̷u̷n̷n̷y̷ ̷d̷i̷s̷p̷o̷s̷i̷t̷i̷o̷n̷s̷ ̷a̷n̷d̷ ̷f̷a̷l̷s̷e̷—̷o̷r̷ ̷w̷o̷r̷s̷e̷!̷—̷t̷r̷u̷e̷ ̷p̷o̷s̷i̷t̷i̷v̷e̷ ̷e̷n̷c̷o̷u̷r̷a̷g̷e̷m̷e̷n̷t̷s̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̷w̷e̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷y̷ ̷a̷r̷e̷ ̷f̷a̷m̷i̷l̷y̷ ̷o̷v̷e̷r̷ ̷a̷n̷d̷ ̷o̷v̷e̷r̷ ̷a̷n̷d̷ ̷o̷v̷e̷r̷.̷.̷.̷)̷ to spend more and more time outside, a silent — fascist — devolutionary push to become social...

Battered by market desires helped out by neolib masked as left echo chamber intellectualizing and harrumphing, we the ones without faces would drag our bodies back into our dark corners with the only consolation of being dead inside.

for the things we read and others parroted

for the

pleasure of ừ̴͔̻̹͎͛̆̋̀̐̆͆͐̈́͋̽̉̐̅̅͐̊͘͝͝͝n̷̡͕̻̯͖̫̺̫̫͔̺̗̜̝̥̬̘̥͖͓̖̮̋͌̔͂̿̎͛̒͗̅͋̃̏̊͒̏̓̈́̀͑̈͊̈̐͂͐̋͂́͐̕͘̕͜w̸̛̛̹̜̬̜͈͙͓͖̹̝͕͙͓̮̱̺̠͍͇͙̿̒̽̈́̿͂͒̋͐̇́̂̌̈́͑͌̈́͒̕͘̚͠ͅa̶̡̨̧̢̪̺̯͔̦̺̗͕͕̹̻̹̱̠̖͓͍̞͇͉̗̫̩͂̔̾̈́̋͛̀̇͊̒͋̓̀̈́͐̿͛̄͌̉̃̀́͜͠͝n̴̝̬͍̲̯͉̗̩̱̺̈́̿̄̌̇̈t̷̪̘͕̪͍͙̳͙̤͇͍͓̠͇̺̳̱͍͎͖͚͕̥̘͇͆͛͋͘ͅi̶̧̙͔̹̞̭͉̞̥͍̗͔̹̩͇͙̞̳̒̽͋̉̀̂̒͒̆̃̍̋͛̓̇̐͋̋̐̀̏͘͝͝n̵̨̼̯̖̲͙̯̦̙͉̭̱͉̮͕̙̰̳͉̭͎̎̄͒̐̓̽́͑̈́̓͐̓͒͑̃̋̒͐̈͌̋̏̂͑̌̏̂̎̔͘͘̚̕͠͝ģ̶̱̬̯̳̫̇̀̋̍͑͝


for ourselves and ą̶̨̛͎͈̥͉̺͎̳̝͖̩̼̻̤̪̣̫̦̪̰̙̤̜̘̦̪̳̣͚̻̯͉̩̟̼̗͕̘̮͈̘̬̦̣̺͈̝̦̞̒͆̆͛̔̒̄̓͂̓̑́̒̓͆̽̒̌̎̇̅̽̃̃̇̊̎͘͘̕͘͜͝͝͠ͅc̵̢̨̢̧̦͕͎͖̰͔͇̘̥̜͚̮͍̼̲̙͚͇̪̖̯̠̥͈͙̹̮̊̽̇̓͆͐̅̽̌̊̏̍͊͆͌̂͑̀̎̎̈̆̉́̔̐̽͛̎̌̈̿̒͊͌̓̎͐̈́͘̚͘͜͝ͅͅċ̵̢̛̫̺͉̹̼̺̞͖͖̹̘͙͈̤͇͉̱̹̔̅̽̑̇̀̂̑͆͂̏͆̚̚͜͜͝͝ͅͅȩ̶̨̨̛̛͖̯͖͓̖̹̮̝̳̭̦̗̖̦̳̼̥̤̘̞̪̺͍̱͈̖̮̼̲̘̞̖̻͚̝̠̟̯̱͇͓̹̜̗̩͔̰̻̳̏̈́̈́͗̍͗̉̈̈́̂̌̋̉͒̓́͋̃̈̈́̈́̌̇͌͑͌͂̄̿̌͊͊̃͒̚͘͘͜͝l̵̨̢̨̨̨̡̛͕͉̭̙̤̟̗̩̹̘̻͖̲̝̯̩̖̜̜̠͇͈͎̭̫͍̰̯͍̹̜̟̠̗̳̩̙̪̼̹̝͎̠̺͓̬̱͋̅̂̓́̾̑̂͊͊̀͑̇̇̽̌̌̀̓̉͆͐̄̚̚͘͜͠ͅͅe̷̗̘̘͖̣͙̼̤̅͛̍̏̀̌̚ͅr̶̢̛̻͉̠̾̒̋̓̐̓̌̈́̊̃̎͋͒̊͐͑̀̍̈́̿̈̋̋̈́̚̕̕͠͝a̸̢̨̡̨̡̢̛̛̰͎͓̯̙̺̘̣̗̟̗͔͍̰̬̖̳͖̝̩̦̖͎͈̼̘͓̬͉̺̳̦̲͓̼̺͎̹̘̱̹̠̯͍͈̘͔̙̐̅̑̔̔̃̌̾̔͋̈́̎͐̽̓̓̅̈̈́̐̎̈́͐̿̄̒̐̾͋̂̌̀̏̅́͂̓̑̋̑̅̎̈͗̈́͛͑̈́̐̑́̽̕͜͜͝͝͠͝ͅt̴̢̡̡̫̜̝͔̭͖̜͈̯̣̰̥̞͎̺̘̳̳͍̫̞̜͕͙̳̜̗̬̺͓̪̜̲̙̺̮̹̫̜̖͎̳͉͚̖̠̭̦̥̦͐͂͑͑̈́̐̈́́̆͌̑̀̊͗̓̐̔̂͋̀́̑̀̇̆̅͂͗͋̇́̚̚͜ͅͅi̸̪͈̋̽͊͒̌̿̽͒̀̈̀͂͛͋̈́̍̇͂͂̂͘n̵̢̢̨̧̛̠͔͇͍̦̱̘̰̘̖̫̰͕̮̞̖̜͓̘̬͉̪̤̜̱̠̪͕̺̹̻̞̰̦͉̄̋̂͐̊͛̾̊͑̔͆̏͂̿͑͑̀͆͐͜͝͠g̷̛̛̛̛̪̱͕̭͕̖͍͕̰̺̙̙̱͇̍̎͊̾̄͆̒̽̌̂̊͊͒͒́̾͑̔͐̆̍͂́̉̔̀̏̾̌͋̅̋̀͋̓̽͋̾̀̓̅̊̎̏̿̍͗̿̂͗̈́͘͘͝͝͝ ̵̢̧̡̱̯̠̟̲̦͓̜͉͖̰̖̟̫̙̬̰̮̗͙͚̠͆̇̓̆́͒͌̄̏͋̕͠ nowhere fast.


there’s nothing scary about lovecraftian xenogothic tentacles