another wuthering nite in the sausalito hills has come and gone..

someone recently asked me what my lifelong dream was. i muttered something moderately palatable to her normie psyche, unable to vocalize my real, infinitely more condescending answer––‘to cure an en pee see’ lolzz..

anyway, once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means..

i find myself within the final hours of an immense, apocalyptic battle unfolding across an unfamiliar terrestrial dreamscape––a sprawling, dramatic theater comprised of soldiers, civilians, military apparatus, and innumerable infected moving chaotically across an environment already partially surrendered to outbreak and war..

an enormous bridge panoramically traverses the entire landscape, intermittently disappearing behind frenetic movements of people fleeing, fighting, dying. myriad weapons discharge from disparate corners of the battlefield as soldiers attempt to neutralize human bodies overtaken by some preternaturally intelligent parasitic (fungal?) infection, capable of subsuming its hosts so consummately that it renders them totally absent, unavailable for comment––and nearly impossible to kill..

and yet, alongside that diagnosis, i am psychically apprised of something seemingly irreconcilable––we are winning. i hold these two mutually exclusive certainties in abeyance without understanding how..

as military personnel fire upon the infected––bodies collapsing beneath the cumulative violence of a broader offensive whose mechanics remain oblique to my awareness––i apprehend that the battle has turned decisively against them. despite their almost incomprehensible resilience––despite every visual indication that they should be functionally indestructible––the infected are dying..

and somehow i know that it is precisely because we are winning that all the kinetic onslaughts are about to escalate—accelerate—from here..

as one of them begins to succumb nearby, its body collapses downward and appears almost to integrate with the earth itself. from somewhere beneath its faltering anatomy, long tentacular appendages suddenly proliferate outward, penetrating the ground before accelerating laterally through subterranean earth at impossible velocities––hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of yards in every direction..

its tentacles disappear entirely from view before erupting elsewhere across the battlefield––sometimes at distances so absurdly remote that their reemergences seem almost spatially irreconcilable with the nearby, prostrate creature from which they originated. the tentacles hunt frantically for residual sources of innocent life––surfacing beside soldiers, civilians, anyone apparently susceptible to whatever strange process of integration permits the infection to propagate from one life to another..

at one point i become vaguely aware that their selection is not indiscriminate. even while dying, the tentacles appear capable of making extraordinarily sophisticated, mathematically precise energetic appraisals of prospective victims––as though evaluating, from impossible distances, the relative capacities of passersby to resist whatever quanta of force yet available to them. the sufficiently resilient are apparently not worth the energetic expenditures––whereas others, perhaps more fragile, more permeable, can yet be overwhelmed..

at this point, an important heuristic governing the dream’s internal logic suddenly crystallizes for me––that the weaker the infected become, the more predatory they grow, and the farther their tentacles are predisposed to travel..

the battlefield deteriorates into almost incomprehensible chaos as soldiers continue gunning down the infected, bodies keep falling, and the unwashed are caught in the violent peripheral consequences of society’s collapse. every apparent victory seems to generate another wave of reciprocal suffering––as though coaxing the parasite towards its death merely inversely concentrates whatever residual life force yet within it into increasingly desperate expressions of predation..

amidst this pandemonium, my attention gradually converges upon one infected man in particular, bearing the physiognomy and aura of barack obama––or the parasite donning his mask?

the distinction feels strangely important from within the dream––everyone recognizes him as obama, and yet he remains an anthropomorphic costume for whatever intelligence now thoroughly occupying him..

he is dying, and for reasons never oneirically explicated, the dream seems intent upon making me watch. his family remains somewhere nearby––possibly alongside other powerful global playmakers, some themselves approaching death?––but my attention remains affixed to him as his life force recedes..

at some point, confronted with the inevitability of his own extinction, he motions to sacrifice one of his daughters..

i don't understand how––no visible transfer of blood or energy occurs anywhere on scene––yet i know immediately that her death has somehow bought him additional time. whatever biological economy governs the species allows the remaining vitality of one life to be appropriated by another, and so he surrenders his own daughter to salvage himself, tsk tsk..

and, predictably, whatever he extracts from her appears provisionally sufficient for him to survive a while longer..

energetically attenuated nonetheless, he collapses onto the ground before me––maybe ninety–eight percent dead?––prostrate, ostensibly motionless, a trail of dried blood emanating from his body in his wake. and yet, impossibly, somewhere thousands of yards away, his tentacles are still hunting beneath the earth––whatever residual life within him now obsessionally probing the farthest peripheral reaches of the dreamscape in one final act of parasitism as his body lies dormant, his predatory reach far beyond my optical purview..

i find myself almost awestruck by the supernatural tenacity of the enemy. even after sacrificing his own daughter, even after his body has been rendered ostensibly inert––his countenance totally obscured by dust and sweat and blood––one hundred percent of his residual life force remains devoted to finding someone else to infect on his way out the door––even in the throes of his ontological exit scene..

even as the parasite, via the infected, wields supernatural power, leveraging its asymptotic eye queue and pervasive subterranean reach, it continues to die in apparent defiance of every card on the table. the more power the parasite expends, the weaker it becomes––and the weaker it becomes, the more concentrated, desperate, and spectacular its final expression––a recursive ontological feedback loop that never seems to break. that certainty remains strangely inviolate even as ‘good’ people continue falling amidst the whiplash, collateral damage––pushing back against the parasite’s desperate efforts to stonewall––postpone––embryonic heaven a little while longer..

standing there in a kind of daze, i attempt in vain to reconcile the parasite’s remaining reach with its incontrovertible extinction––my pulsing, hazel eyes saccading panoramically across the bridge and soldiers and bodies and subterranean networks and broader theatre of war as reality fractures and i am abruptly collapsed back to waking life..

LS

pee es. just shipped a nauseatingly immaculate update to amethyst scene.. 😈🎬

follow the purple rabbit..