the japanoise, when algorithmically denoised, revealed the mantra of avalokiteshvara. they brought the recording to a lama, who requested the mantra itself denoised

the pineal of tulpas hardens into gemstone. monasteries hold a mahatulpa in mind for 7 generations before slaughtering it for the noogem

the McFlurry induces visual snow, the nuggets are shaped like the voles they came from, the McDouble is for autoscopy. every meal includes a meal for your dead

tune an oneiroharmonograph to 5:4 and the dream closes into a lissajous curve by midnight. detune it by a comma, and the figure precesses; the dream runs till dawn

dreamachine overview with a tangent about how the fire kasina in buddhist meditation is an early example of photic driving. i feel like an emoji is appropriate here. perhaps the thumb 👍

Qualiaflow (@qualiaflow)

Dreamachines The dreamachine is a stroboscopic light-art device designed by artist Brion Gysin and mathematician Ian Sommerville. This invention gained some traction in the 1960s, notably with the Be...

substack.com

i'm handing you a bouquet of maurer roses. you twirl d and pause at 7, one of the 96 settings coprime to 360, where the stemminess turns to clove and jam

for tlaloc tuesday, you can buy a tlaloc in exchange for cacao or jade or quachtli, or get 2 for 2 hearts, at your local tlaloquería. huitzilopochtlis are hearts-only, quetzalcoatls half off

it's tlaloc tuesday. the tlaloc kit comes with fangs, goggles, a lightning wand, and a jar you're not supposed to open. blue fog gets on your face and the third sun rolls under the racks

in the cool of evening, god walks in the garden of ruliads, where the branching has slowed enough to prune, through a topiary of multiway graphs

well i wrote a primer on the ruliad. i'm not sure why. an afflatus came over me

Qualiaflow (@qualiaflow)

Climbing the Ol' Ruliad Right, so the ruliad is built up from Wolfram's concept of the ordinary multiway system. The ordinary multiway system is a collection of state linked by updating events, bas...

substack.com

a kuramoto-like synchronization of buddhas emerges once compassion exceeds the critical coupling. below that threshold, their oms are pink noise

velellveeta, the processed velella, is made with real velella paste and polyp solids. it stacks, slices, and melts into uniform indigo goo upon beaching

before the wind rises, flocks of pre-dawn parallelepipeds roost into lattices: triclinic sheets along the trellises, a rhombic triacontahedron in the apple boughs

my favorite memory was when all the hydrogen atoms in your left eye flew out as butterflies. over the following months, i helped you relearn where to point your head

the tropical parallelepiped is ripe, its vertices soft enough to push a straw through and drink blue volume. its planarity already wilts on the leeward parallelogram

liquid bubblegum beings, who touch everything at once, glue slices of indranet into an indramillefeuille and chew what squeezes out the sides

ectoplasm tastes like wintergreen & moonlight. the ferryman eats a tin of Beyond Breath Ectomints per crossing and his teeth have gone translucent

waking up beside my biblically accurate angel lover, green leaking from his aureole into the mattress, our limbs knotted through Ezekiel wheels, turning us over till noon

introduced a dmt elf to alcohol, now it's muddling mojitos inside a klein bottle. the lime exits the glass, re-enters its own peel, and returns left-handed, tasting of pine

truncation candies: jawbreaker platonic solids that truncate through the archimedean sequence as you lick them. the last flavor is always sphere

divine spectralists dose children with color-blockers before puberty, training the cortex to reject magenta, purple, pink. hues without wavelengths are beyond Godlicht

a young grove orgasms in 17 colors across its distributed ꙮ-spot. pilgrims come each flowering season to count: this canopy gives 9, and the 9th, lavender, takes until morning

you were grafted as a child. now, each june, koosh blooms bristle from your wrists like pink sawtooth thistle. the neighborhood children squeeze your latex branches, waiting for the /koosh/

quaternion flowers revolve in laminar taffy-pulls: one rotation flips their petals, tucking the nectar inside. the 4d moths lap once and find negative sugar, loop again and drink

your japanese puzzle box armadillo forgets his unlocking combination as he ages. he stays balled often now, neck bowed, clawing at the wrong carapace notch

psychodillo the menger sponge armadillo startles, jumps and deletes another middle third, volvates at the apex, and lands as a cantor dust of armadillicules

on july nights you crack a cube soda, cream soda piped from a tesseract. it's july there too, in a direction you can't point to. "damn hot out," you mutter, meaning all 8 julys

there are weaire-phelan cells in my fruity pebbles foam, the hyperarchitecture of the flintstones. i can see fred's house, grape dodecahedra packed against lime tetrakaidecahedra, mortared in pure color

please pick me up from the mandala. i'm the blue in the northeast quadrant, i think, although the kalachakra hovers in a sky of the same blue. scoop me out in the widest bowl you have

well an evil monk trapped me in his sand mandala again. now there are 12 of me, typing counterclockwise, our fingers leaking gulal onto the keys