medical nerve growth agents, reused as poison gas - victims grow new neurons everywhere, become unable to move out of pain

no human touch, no robot touch, no insect touch, not even mold, the forces of decay themselves avoid your body and leave you alone, immortal

“the egregore layer”, “memespace”, “social norms”, to name some

Your mind has guests. No parasites, no, but satellites that run epicycles around your thoughts. Subtle, weird, emergent epipsyches.

Sounds like it’s time for another entry of World Building!↵http://www.synkretie.net/writings/world%20building%20-%20abyss.html↵Previous installment: http://www.synkretie.net/writings/world%20building%20-%20flat%20earth.html

Large nets around the trees both slow their fall and bring in food, sails collect dust to grow crops in, some colonies trail entire orchards

Life in the eternal roaring twilight is austere but not without joys. There is great celebration every time the hunters bring home skyjelly.

Hold onto one of those trees and you may find it inhabited with other pilgrims, living in treehouses constantly buffeted by the abyss’ winds

In fact, you can subsist on surprised birds until you hit the deeper layers where skyjellies roam, trees without roots, edible clouds

Common wisdom tells us: Fall off one of the floating islands, you’ll never hit the ground and eventually starve. Some doubt it and jump.

Legally recognized as the Fractured, they’re allowed to merge if they can provide credible evidence. Had a soulmate then? Now’s your chance.

They restore people from their exoselves, but the archive is flawed and one meatsack’s identities often become multiple reconstructs.

Eventually the cage surrounds the dragon’s heart. Keeps them on the ground, you know? Reins in their ambitions. Only way we can coexist.

Young dragons, we put in cages. Not that it helps much, they grow around the bars. But the bars don’t break, embed themselves in the flesh.

He’s still looking at you, smiling but a bit absent while more hairs dismember the struggling wasp, the last remains vanish into his curls

His hair seems to move on its own, you could’ve sworn- there! A wasp flies near his hair and one shoots outwards, lassoes it, reels it in

*oh, you mean-*↵%it must’ve gone around and killed all the others, what else can kill man%↵sad. an age of kings, ended by near-omnicide

*billions of them*↵%the fabric of the universe itself must’ve strained%↵*but what killed the others?*↵%well you know of its warlike nature%

Alien historians studying post-hivemind humanity:↵*It says here that man was once many, not one*↵%Stars help us, one is scary enough%

god is dreaming and us being made in its image is simply pareidolia

^ Be like this guy, be a bore. ^↵Last person to find one made it a kaleidoscope. Created at least twelve infinities. Oh god the paperwork.

I’d like to turn in this mirror, it’s broken. Shows things that don’t exist. Our cat walked into it, now she’s a ferret. I hate ferrets.

the ebony hearts of slain dryads make for kickass ocarinas

Should the ocean become eerily still, stop the engines and cease all movement. They feed on kinetic energy, such as your attempts of escape.

A tale of elsewhere so compelling, the words themselves pack up and leave, wander from mouth to mouth to find the place they sing of

on the other end of the spectrum: jungleverses teeming with life on every scale, subatomic parasites feeding on stars, physics is biology

“I gave this one extra deep gravity wells in the places that would usually catch life and it still got out, what the hell, it’s spreading”

demiurges usually make their universes lifeless and sterile, life is a blemish, disturbs the cosmic order, messes up perfectly fine crystals

oops wrong account

The Internet becomes self aware and our radio dishes pivot to point at Proxima Centauri - first thing it does is call a therapist.

crawling the darkweb is hard because while our spiders feel at home everywhere else in the web, something in those parts feeds on them

world words, holographic carriers of meaning from which you can reconstruct the entire book, language, society, universe

Contact is rather one-sided. They splatter against protons like flies against windscreens and we scrape them up, hoping to read their minds.

The first aliens we meet turn out to be boltzmann brains in our particle accelerators. You know, those places with the deadly radiation.

arrange your furniture so that your bed creates the subtle impression of the hub of a spiderweb, your dates will love it

a river in your mind↵of snaking churning protean sludge↵remakes what furrows it flows over↵never finds a sea to end in, only joins itself

there once was a race of primates through whose veins ran alcohol but we’ve rendered them extinct and now have to make do with rotten grapes

She spreads her arms, begins chanting, carmine flames of cloth snake out of her dress, float upwards, surround an unseen light over her head

A silicon symbiont that projects the mind’s contents into cyberspace, where infovores feed on them in exchange for “likes” and “validation”.

Embedded into the forehead, because that’s a lot of existing wiring already leads, is a cybernetical third eye - but one that looks inwards.

Modern neural interfaces are not implants but rather chrome ticks that attach to the skull, to drill a hole and inject a nerve growth agent.

life as we know it is merely a virus that needs reality to support it↵real, hardcore, life needs nothing but mathematical structure

Come let’s hop over into the apocalypse timeline and explore the radioactive ruins of your hometown - I even brought hazmat suits!

Knowing this, gods are usually kind to their subjects. But some are simply insane. Others hate their younger selves and want them to hurt.

It’s a very young god so maybe don’t ask it about theodicy - it hasn’t created you yet. But if you feel vindictive, you can even torture it.

You can contact your universe’s god by figuring out its great unifying theory, simulating it and then talking to the resulting entity.

In the low res sims, you will see artifacts when you rub your eyes, kaleidoscopic phosphenes that tear apart your vision and leave boxes

the whirligig twirls, flashes and chimes in the wind of ideas and occasionally produces a tweet

Maybe for this reason, there cannot be a single theory of meaning, only one for each of its aspects, uniquely adapted to its nature

Destroying what it meant to enlighten, it wouldn’t be a very good theory