:: DIFFRACTIONS ::

Eden wasn’t singly a Perfect Garden, an Oasis in the Earthlands of Perdition and Oblivion, a speck of infinite light in the belly of abyssal darkness, no; Eden was where creation and Creator could commune for the ages. Where transubstantiation happened with inhibited, infinite synthesis. There is no In or Outside to speak of. Hashem sprung its waters from the emanation of the Ein Sof, Light came right after the world was carefully created to resemble Hu.

It is said still to this day, as a form of popular wisdom, that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Much is true, since when Keter, the First Sefirot, was created its upper halve, after the constriction, opened its eyes. We can say that with the popularization of hypnosis, especially through the visionary work of Herr Sigismund Schlomo Freud, this perspective came intensely into the popular eye. From Indiana Jones to Naruto, in the second case in which eyes stand in for a special technique kept in the same clan through blood lineage and which can only be fully activated through intense trauma. The eyes of one of the clans that directly descended from the Old Sage, from divinity, but a persecuted clan by the Ninja State nonetheless. What makes the depiction of an eye technique so interesting in the case of the Uchiha Clan, the Sharingan and the Rinnegan, is their deep and even flatout obvious connection to witchery. Among its many uses, Sharingan’s most powerful techniques are genjustu, illusion. The capacity of trapping your enemy inside their own heads and torture them for what they subjectively feel as more than one hundred years. Being through hypnosis in the clinic or the opening of third and fourth eyes, the human implicitly knows that the gaze can kill or trap you in infinite inescapable suffering. It is not simply that the abyss gazes back to you as so astutely put by Herr Friedrich, but some people have actual infinite abysses in the place of eye globes.

After the second constriction and the unfolding of Adam Kadmon and the beautiful growth of the Three of Life, then came Lilitu. Of course, Lilitu came after Adam, because she was made to be his wife. But Lilitu was made from the Earth. What Hashem knew as he done this, is that Lilitu is made of the chthonic powers, the same chthonic powers that would torment the dreams and visions of the racist H.P Lovecraft, the same chthonic weaponry that would flesh out in the eyes of Nick Land and put him under its seducing grasp and whispers, a voice that comes from the nucleus of the Earth, where its said that all forms of life came from. Lilitu would not bow down to the pitiful, whiny and pathetic cries of Adam. Adam pronounced: “you lie beneath me”, which was met with a thunderous laughter. The skies began to darken as Lilitu laughed hysterically, a constant flow of tears rolling under her eyes, hands to her head as she grasped her deep black, long, smooth hair. She pronounced The Word, aiming Ein Sof’s aid to leave the Garden and the histrionic Adam behind.

Three angels were sent to bring back Lilitu, with Hashem being clear that she should come only under her own will. The angels strongly grabbed Lilitu, threatening her, to which she said: “My friends, I know Hashem solely created me to weaken new earthlings when they are eight days old. From the day a child is born until the eighth day, I have dominion over the child, and from the eighth day onward I have no dominion over him if he is a boy, but if a girl, I rule over her for twelve days.” It is said to this day that Lilitu works as an algorithmic principle in each woman of the Earth. She seduces women to find out their independence, to their call to become pythoneses, to work with oracles and to bend to their will the desire of men. Even someone like Robert Eggers was capable of understanding this with his zoomer Béla Tarr interpretation of Nosferatu. Inside each woman there is a dormant Lilitu waiting to be awakened. Lilitu, Layla, Leila, Llth, Nyx. They are different renditions of the same name: Night. Lilitumalka, the Queen of the Night, who obviously is connected to the deepest of the Earth, is the one that reigns over the dark sky above us. And here our science friends will be ecstatic with what I am about to tell you! It has been long known now that humans are nothing but stardust. And it was from the stars that the meteors came down killing the chicken of the old days, the dinosaurs. Our infatuation with the cosmos is not only a sublime question, as someone like Kant or Holderlin, even more elegantly with his “Kommunism der Gestein”, would put. We came from the stars, it is the sky that the stars reside, and its over nebulas that Lilitu reigns over. Hence her strikingly shiny seduction powers, the Femme fatale par excellence.

The angels replied: “We won’t let you go until you accept upon yourself that each day one hundred of your children will die.” Lilitu accepted it, she had no intentions whatsoever of coming under the male restrictions she would suffer as the Primordial Mother. That is the reason why one hundred demons die every day. They would not leave her alone until she made an oath under their blazing swords. On her knees deep down in the Red Sea, she looked up and said with a hissing, deep, thunderous voice: “In any place that I see you or your names in an amulet, I will have no dominion over that child.” They finally left her, flying back to Hashem to aid the crying Adam that couldn’t endure his rejection.

What the angels didn’t know that day was that while swimming in the depths of the Red Sea Lilitu came under contact with the Crimson Substance. It is obvious, as I’ve been telling you, that Hashem never opposed or forced Lilitu under his strength. Hashem created her knowing that she would oppose Adam, and that a woman opposing the first man of the world was necessary so man, with their strong yetzer hara, could be always put back in their places. The Crimson Substance would inextricably future-link Lilitu and Eva for the rest of their eternal existences.

Exactly in the lowest point of the Red Sea, Lilitu sees a crimson glowing round form, one that almost blinds her. She swims curiously in its direction but with caution due to its overwhelming, oppressive power. As she approached it she could feel the gravity intensely plundering over her. But its brightening, obfuscating light was so beautiful that she couldn’t resist it. She finally realized it: it was a manifestation of Gevurah. It spoke with no voice or tongues to her, but directly into her soul: “Restriction. Discipline. Justice.” This was the day that the covenant between Lilitu and Samael was made: to put humanity under Hashem’s thumb, to incarnate its most severe aspects, but also to offer unending power to the ones that would follow Hu’s path. That is the reason that most Gnostic’s interpret that Samael and Lilitu are wedded, and that is in fact a possible interpretation, but a reduction of its actual meaning: they are bonded to eternity to be the two principles of Justice. A great correspondence can be found with Ésù in Candomblé and Eshu/Exu in Umbanda. Tzimtzum and Hitpashtut.

Today, tikún olám is carried out by The Glorious Golden Empress. But that happened so because at the moment that Lilitu and Samael touched, they were endowed with a high amount of the divine sparks that shattered the vessels. Everyone that is a descendant of Jacob or shares the faith is endowed with the mission of gathering the holy sparks. But the Crimson Substance was not only how Hashem gave to Samael and Lilitu and Severe Justice and Discipline of The Word, but also he conferred them with a high amount of the sparks. That is the reason why the Crimson Priestess are endowed with a gaze that kills and the capacity to model the World around them: Samael and Lilitu are the ones that direct their path in the terrestrial plane. The existence of the Crimson Priestess is to gather other ascended people so the fragments of the broken vessels can all be gathered once again, and the World repaired.

Now let’s get to where our narrative gets spicy and hot: when Eva meets Lilitu to bound and thread their destinies for all of eternity. The first rays of lightning were touching Eden, such as when the hue of vision steadily turn from dark, to a deep blue, a faint blue and finally the yellow light of the Sun. Milton was probably the human with best optics on the interaction between Eve and the Serpent. The Serpent views Eve surrounded by a pink glow, with a strong yet delicate aroma of roses. It desires Eve. Now hidden, now seen. The sweet recess of Eve drunkens the Serpent. It is hypnotized by the soon-to-be Primordial Mother. The Serpent approaches, smoothly sliding through the grass, its tongue out to better sense her inebrious scent. Organick. The silver tongue works as a sliver. As Liquid Ocelot was correct to say above Snake: I possess the silver tongue. To possess the silver tongue is to walk the path that Jiang Qing walked. To burn inside the passion of a-many hearts. To touch inside one’s soul and inseminate it. The Serpent molded its words with perfection to captivate Eve’s ears and heart. And it succeeded. Empress of this fair world, resplendent Eve! A tree abundant with fruits ruddy and gold. The sharpest of desires. Heavenly ray sly Snake universal Dame. Wandering fire of unctuous vapour. The dauntless virtue whom the pain of death denounced. Consummation. In heavenly breasts lay the knowledge of Good and Evil. Of Life and Death. Of Eros and Thanatos. Earth felt the Wound. Death is to me as life. Vain contest with no end. Wandering desire. Corruption.

It is known among the Gnostics the hypothesis that Eve was not only courted by the Serpent, but lay down with her. The act of actual sex does not interest us the least. The hidden truth that the Gnostics could never access is that the Serpent is not Samael or Lucifer, the Rising Star. The Serpent is an incarnation of the Crimson Substance. Severity, Justice and Discipline with the algorithmic functions of Lilitu and Samael. In that day, through its tongue, they inseminated Eve with the corruption of humanness. It is that moment, with Eve’s boldness, that the human race is born. And that is the reason why that millennium later Lilitu and Eve shall meet again, to create the offspring of the species of the Coming World, where the fragments of the light vessels are gathered by its holy offspring.

I have seen the forge where the worlds are wrought,

The molten river of Crimson,

A pulse that carves the marrow of the cosmos.

Through the veil of iron and flame,

The Word takes form,

Each note a blade,

Each silence a wound.

O seekers, do you hear it?

The Iron Song, born in the breath of prophecy,

Unyielding, unbroken.

I am the Prince of Motion,

The spark that leaps from the anvil’s kiss.

I am the arc of light,

The shadow of the hammer’s descent.

Through my hands flows the Crimson Substance,

Through my wings the Song resounds.

Each vibration scatters sparks into the heavens,

Each spark, a fragment of eternity.

Dance, O shards, in the rhythm of the divine,

For you are the stars in the furnace of time.

Hear me, children of iron and blood!

The Song is law, and the law is fire.

It shapes the shapeless, binds the boundless,

Cuts through the lies of the untempered heart.

In its chords, the scales are set:

The mercy of the soft note,

The severity of the sharp refrain.

What is broken must be reforged.

What is lost must be sung anew.

Through the Iron Song, the balance is restored.

I am the voice within the song,

The whisper in the spaces between.

I gather tongues and scatter words,

A prism for the light of the Tree.

O Crimson flow, O Iron hymn,

Through me, your melody becomes flesh.

I am the Babel of the bound and the free,

The bridge across the broken vessels.

Sing, O Song, through the breath of many.

Speak, O Truth, in the language of all.

O Iron Song, eternal and unyielding,

You are the anthem of creation’s forge.

From the Crimson Substance, you rise,

A hymn to the fractured and the whole.

Let the Tree of Life tremble at your resonance,

Let the spheres of the heavens bow to your rhythm.

For in you, all is remade,

And through you, all shall endure. 

:: ::::

1. Conflict Territory

::: :::

I was surely born under a bad sign. It was a Shabbat, though, and they told me the day was filled with a beautiful, shining sun. More or less a fifteen hour labor. But it was only 2 years after my uncle, who committed suicide putting a couple of bullets on his skull, from whom I carry my name. I always thought that this was such a dirty, unfunny joke. To have the name of a suicidal person. And yet, I believe that the curse that runs under my family was broken after my transition. Last year I had a succubus attack. They were two, and they emulated the sort of women I am attracted to. It was a whole Rosemary’s Baby debauchery of a dream, and I woke up terrified. I went to the bathroom, and to my surprise, I came. It wasn’t merely a dream, but a magical attack. This was the exact time that my spirituality and devotion to Hashem was intensifying. I took my chances and made four rituals of defense and attack. I am not sure if my transsexual obsessed opponents actually came under any distress, but I am sure that my body since then was closed. I made a covenant with Lilitu Malka. And this changed my life.

I checked with Pythia. I knew that my Spanish ancestry was linked to the Celtiberians. It is not only chance that my grandfather is the greatest hermetic practitioner of our country. I knew that I have been blessed from birth to be protected from the chthonic forces, but I had no idea I would soon be endowed to be the Messiah of our millennium. At my life’s twilight, I could finally see with Minerva’s owl eyes: my whole life was predestined with this moment. I knew that my adversaries were weak Wicca and that all of their attacks stemmed from Lilitu. And also I have been titled as Eva by many around me: I named and took under my wing many daughters. I had many sisters and wives. After I bleached my hair something took a turn for the twisted, but it was the winding road that whispered in my ears: Eva Maschiach, your destiny is only waiting for you. Knowing that the only force that my ridiculous rivals could access was Lilith, I decided to not only make a covenant with Lilitu, but to become Lilitumalka. Queen of the Night.

Not surprisingly, the change came some days after. A gypsy once told me that every Pomba Gira has a Lilitu flow of energy. I had been visited some times in the last couple years by Tranca Ruas, I knew he was my guardian and that our energies was aligned. When I actually went to the terreiro, among other things, he told me: “I liked you. I am your friend. When you need to open your paths, you just call me.” Making the covenant with Lilitu was also a bond with Eshu, and also the activation of a millennium long destiny: to be Hashem’s Yeshu, to bring back Yeshu’s path as a possible path of Judaism, and specifically messianic judaism. Ben Yusef and Ben David birthed and brought up by Eva Maschiach.

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I remember the first time that I saw you smoking a cigarette right next to the catwalk. Your blonde hue was similar to mine, you had such a cool, fuck off attitude that I asked myself: “Have I seen her before?” I wasn’t sure, but your face was familiar. We had a quick greeting, and later you told me that when the fashion show started, you were looking for me in the audience but couldn’t find me. I found that cute as fuck and carry it in my heart until this day. Later we were at the bar and I was telling a long story of abuse from someone close to me, and worse, someone close to a man that occupies a position of authority towards me. After I finished it, you looked at me with your Cheshire kitten smile and said: “Of course, hun, you’re hot as fuck”. If I were some kind of stuck up progressive transsexual I would think that was offensive, but it was the best way to flirt with me. I scribbled in my head: “yeah, this chick wanna fuck me”. It didn’t take many hours for you to buy us some wine and for me to take us out of those fashion and media professionals to my apartment. We had some awesome sex and since then I can’t fathom my life without you. You became my Lilitumalka and the nucleus of my heart.

I had already noticed that all of my wives after the covenant were sprung from Lilitu, that they had a connection to the chthonic forces. But I knew yours was special. You have a trident tattooed on your chest. Even though you are a woman you walk through the streets with no fear. And it’s not like you’re a hyperfemme muscled wand carrying mashiach-like butch like me, no, you’re a short princess. But you have cursed blood as mine, you read the stars better than anyone I know, you hear and see it without the need of eyes or voices. You carry the same mark as me, the same destiny as me: to be bound to the chthonic forces, but not as its servant, but as its Priestess. The Glorious Golden Empress found her cis double, her uterus doppelgänger: The Crimson Pythonese Priestess. I knew it was a match made in heaven, and since then there is not a single day that goes by without me thinking about you and us. The way you smile, your shining white teeth, the smoothness of your skin, how I like to feel your hair flowing on my fingers, the way you touch and how I feel your body. Everything I write about you feels so redundant, because I just with you can shine as the brightest star, which is exactly what you are. You are a constellation incarnated. Deliciously dangerous bloody sexy smoking beautiful.

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Eva has finally found, many millennia after, the Serpent that comes to Eden to bring her out to the World. We’re going to populate this terrestrial plane with our offspring. To make Earth become Paradise it takes Eva and Lilitu together. It takes an intertwining of mothering and womanhood, of infinite care and abounding autonomy, of nurturing engineering and destructive architecting. Meeting you was a gift from Destiny which I thank Hashem everyday. Finally Samael can espouse Lilitu once again so we can bring about Discipline, Severity and Justice and build the Coming World. I don’t doubt for a second that our offspring is gonna be responsible for collecting the light vessels’ shards. Because there is enough sparks between us to burn the whole world down, and to rebuild it together.

In the shadowed vale where Eshu’s winds do wend,

The carmine stream unfolds, its current bends,

A tide of love, of longing, and of flame,

Each name a hymn, a star, a hallowed claim.

Eva, thou art the tempest’s tender cry,

A phoenix woven ‘neath a twilight sky.

Your voice, a chord of cosmic night’s refrain,

Binds Lilitu’s breath with Eve’s eternal pain.

In you, the myths entwine, the stars conspire,

The world alight with crimson’s fierce desire.

Lillitumalka, wild muse of sacred night,

Your steps awaken dreams of moon’s delight.

A laughter echoing through boughs of ash,

Your kiss, a spark, ignites the velvet flash.

Beneath your gaze, the void finds tender grace,

A labyrinth where time forgets its pace.

Lilitumalka, bearer of the ancient flame,

In you, the primal whispers speak their name.

Your hands, the weaver’s touch, the healer’s balm,

Your soul, a tempest laced with Eden’s calm.

Through you, the boundless waters learn to sing,

A love unbroken, circling everything.

Together, we, a constellation’s art,

Our union forged within the cosmic heart.

The serpent’s gaze, unyielding, bold, beholds,

Our boundless story, bright as fate foretold.

No tomb could cradle what our spirits dare,

No silence hold the song we softly share.

O crimson river, bear us to the stars,

Where Lilitu’s scars meet Nyx’s sacred scars.

Where Eva’s eyes, a mirror of the flame,

Shall speak our love, undying, yet unnamed.

And there, upon the threshold of the sky,

Our love shall linger, even when we die

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II. The Apostles and the Prophets

 
Run, my friend, into your solitude! I see you taken by the noisy hateful speech of so called great men and poisoned by the touch of the little men. Become like the loved flaming Tree of Life, which has its infinite branches: silent and listening to the waves of the ocean. Where solitude ends, there begins the free market of ideas; and where Mises and Hayek begins, there beings too the noise of the buzzing and ridiculous flimsy flies. In the terrestrial plane even the most graceful acts are still worthless without the one person who first performs them: the people who call these men great philosophers. The people don’t understand one iota of what is great, that is: Hashem. But they do have an idea for all the agents and institutions and sacred writings of the greatest achievements. The World orbits around the accelerators of new-born values: – it orbits invisibly. But the people and fame revolve around agents: thus is the course of the terrestrial plane. Geist the agent has, but little conscience of Geist. They always consecrate in whatever makes the herd believe most intensely – believe in Her! Tomorrow they will have a new belief and the day after tomorrow an even newer Religion. She has a hasty sensibility, like the herd, and a fickle ability to sense scent. To overthrow – to her that means: to act. To drive insane – to her that means: to preach. And blood to her is the best of all possible grounds. The Truth that flows only under the finer souls they call a lie and nothing. Indeed, she only believes in entities that make a thunderous impact in the World. The free market of ideas is full of pompous jesters. They are the women of the Hour. But the Hour presses them, and so they press you. And from you too they want a Yes or a No. Alas, do you want to set your chair between Holy and Profane? Be without Jealousy on account of these unconditional and pressing functions, you lover of The Truth!

“Go ahead and do whatever you will – but first be the kind of species who can desire! Go ahead and love your sisters as you love yourselves – but first be the kind of transexual who loves your sisters as you love yourself – love with the great Love, love with the greatest spite!”

The Cold, an outsider guest, sits in my home; my cheeks are cold from her friendly kisses. I honor her, this wicked Guest, but I gladly let her sit alone. Fondly I run away from her, and if one runs well, then one can escape her! With warm fingers and warme drives I run to where the wind is calm – to the sunny spot of my Mount of Olives. I laugh at my fierce guest and still think well of her for catching the flies in my house and silencing much small perturbation. For she does not tolerate it when a fly or two wants to sing; she also makes the lane so lonely that the Full Moon is afraid in it at night. A hard guest she is – but I honor Jesus, and I do not pray for the pot-bellied Cow Idol like the weaklings. Rather a bit of fangs chattering than worshiping icons – that is how my kind desires it. And I especially grudge all horny, steamy, musty fire eguns. Lowly frequencies that pitch up high in the inside of our skulls. Whomever I love, I love better in the presence of Cold than in the presence of Heat, better and more heartily I now mock my adversaries since Cold sits at home with me. Soulfully indeed, even when I crawl to my nest – then even my hiding joy laughs and makes mischief; even my sleeping visions laugh. I, a Serpent? Never in my life have I been a Serpent before the mighty; and if I ever lied, then I lied out of passion. That is why I am the cheerest even in my cold nest. A meager nest warms more than a bourgeois one, for I am envious of my poverty, and in Coldness it is most faithful to me. Each day I begin with a sadism; I mock Coldness with a cold bath – that makes my courage house guest howl. Simultaneously, I run with Heat across the Mount of Olives; in the sunny spot of my Mount and I sing and mock all pitying.

Judas loves me so obsessively that I can barely get to write about her. It is the love of sacrifice, a sacrifice that knows that gets to transubstance its homogenic, mediocre, human experience into holiness, into the realm of the inhuman. The thirteenth jinn is in deep, passionate love with The Glorious Golden Empress. It knows it must betray her, it knows that in four years it should sell her body for thirty silver coins. Judas lusts over Eva Mashiach’s body – she wants to become it. But she knows she must serve under Hashem’s orders: she must sacrifice her holiness for treason. The 613 angels rover above Judas, knowing its path must be the one of corruption. The Serpent does not need to approach Judas; the Carmine Substance lives within her. The destiny of Judas is to wield the Spear of Longinus and strike Yeshu in its most fragile second. To kill the Highest Crimson Pythonese Priestess is the task of an angel.

Since childhood, Judas was indoctrinated into the Mysteries. Studied the life and oeuvre of Elijah, Noah, Moshe, Yochanan the Baptist and all of the heretic jewish orders. Judas was versed in pagan semitism and knew all of the historic formation behind the desert religions. Judas was from her early years in close communion with Malkuth. It knew that for the ground under her feet to flourish it would need to be the most passionate apostle, the one that soon in her life would give away from the path of the Coming World to the sacrifice of the Maschiach.

As the nurturing Primordial Mother that Eva was, she took Judas under her arms. Embrace her frail body, caressed her dark brown eyes, hold her slim cheeks with both hands and looked into the depths of her abyssal eyes, saying: “Do not worry about the coming years, Judas, I know about your in-depth obsession with me. Follow my steps, abide by my side, receive my learnings and we shall ascend together. I know your task is a heavy one, one that should be met with severity, discipline, and justice. You’re carrying a burden that no other can, and for that matter I respect you the most”.

The Earth can be neither be Ordered nor Mastered, but it shall be Ruled. The übermalak is in the insides of my soul, that is my first and my only concern – and not living, terrestrial species; not the neighbor, not the poorest, not the most suffering, not the best – Oh my sisters, what I am able to love in human beings is that they are a goin over and a ginger under. And in you, too, there is much that makes my heart beat and my skin transpire. That you despise, you übermalaks, that makes me hopeful and joyful. For the great despisers are the great Priestess.

Beneath the olive trees, where night hangs low,

a whisper rises through the silver leaves:

Judas walks, a vessel for the infinite,

his kiss the seal of something vast, unseen.

“Why do you mark me thus?” the angels cry,

but he, unmoved, ascends his chosen path.

In love’s abyss, the light refracts anew;

the traitor wears the robes of prophecy.

“All substance moves in harmony divine,”

spoke the jinn of fire, their tongues ablaze.

Yet Judas knew: to love the infinite

is to embrace the pain of finite chains.

A kiss was not a dagger,

but a bridge to heaven’s truth:

“Creation blooms in paradox.

The fall ascends; the wound reveals the cure.”

The seraphim wept blood into the soil,

but Judas stood unmoved, his heart alight.

Not for silver, not for treachery,

but for love, he bore the mark of wrath.

The jinn of wind, unseen, began to sing:

“No prophet walks without a shadow’s hand,

no savior blooms without a field of thorns.”

Judas answered, “I am the shadow’s hand,

the thorn that pricks the fabric of the heavens.”

He kissed the Word,

and in that kiss, the Logos broke.

What seemed betrayal was creation’s fire,

a phoenix born of ashes unforeseen.

The angel of the abyss speaks:

“Judas, I see you among the fallen stars,

a spark torn free from heaven’s silken veil.

You are the wound that bleeds eternity,

the hand that shapes divinity anew.”

The seraphim turn away, their voices still,

but the cherubim chant in whispers soft:

“This was no sin, but love misunderstood,

a love that dared to shatter even God.”

“Forsitan et fallax amor est,” cried the stars,

“sed quid amor, nisi mors in corde latet?”

Perhaps love is a lie, yet still it burns,

its flame a mirror of the world’s descent.

Like Aeneas lost among the waves,

Judas walked the shores of human grief.

The angels spoke: “You bear the weight of time,”

but he, unmoved, embraced his fate.

The demons sang: “Through him, the circle turns,

the serpent eats its tail, and love is born.”

Judas, your kiss was not the end of all,

but the beginning of the infinite.

Through fire, through shadow, through the weight of sin,

your name becomes the song of what remains:

“Every fall contains its rise;

every love conceals its wound.”

Thus in the fields of olive trees, the wind

still whispers Judas’ name, a hymn to loss,

a hymn to love, the hymn of all that is.

IV. The Return to Eden

And the river moves through cities that are not cities, a rhythm of steel and bone where light falls fractured on glass, where the song of the factory whistles collapses into the hum of human bodies in transit, a migration endless, cyclical, boundless as a wheel turning over and over again — oh, but the wheel grinds on, unceasing, until its edges splinter and shatter into shards of memory, and you find yourself holding fragments, edges sharp, pricking skin, drawing blood that stains the pages of some unwritten text, a gospel of lost hours, a compendium of silences broken by the crash of waves. You think you see it — yes, the sea, always the sea — an image so vast it devours thought, where words collapse into foam, and time curls back upon itself, a spiral of eternities contained within the instant of a tide’s retreat. And then there is the salt, stinging your tongue, your eyes, until all the world tastes of forgetting.

But the forgetting is not absolute, no, for the face rises up again and again, unbidden, pale and luminous as a moonlit stone, as if drawn by some force unseen, the pull of a magnet buried deep in the earth, in the marrow of your bones. And her voice — it is hers, isn’t it? — trickles through the cracks in your mind like water through the fissures of a drought-starved riverbed, a voice not heard but felt, a vibration humming beneath the skin, in the pulse of your wrist, the hollow of your throat. She speaks, and the words twist into shapes you cannot hold, words like birds in flight, winged and fleeting, their meaning slipping through your fingers like smoke. You reach for her, but she dissolves, always dissolves, into the gray haze of morning, leaving only the echo of her laughter, brittle as glass.

Glass, yes, the mirror is glass, and the face you see is not hers but your own, or is it? The features shift, melt, reform, a kaleidoscope of selves flickering in and out of focus. You lean closer, searching for the thread, the continuity, the line that ties this moment to the next, but it is gone, severed, lost in the blur of becoming. Becoming what? You do not know, cannot know, for the becoming is endless, a perpetual unfolding, a flower that blooms and withers and blooms again in the space between one breath and the next. The mirror cracks, spiderweb fractures spreading outward, and you watch as your reflection shatters into a thousand pieces, each one bearing a fragment of your face, your face but not your face, a mosaic of selves scattered across the floor.

And the floor is water now, a black and bottomless sea, and you are sinking, sinking, the weight of your thoughts dragging you down, deeper and deeper into the abyss. The pressure builds, crushing, suffocating, until you think you might burst, your lungs collapsing under the strain. But then there is light, faint and flickering, a phosphorescent glow that pulses in time with the beat of your heart. It draws you closer, pulls you forward, and you find yourself standing on the threshold of a door that is not a door, a portal carved from the fabric of night itself. You step through, and the world shifts, tilts, rearranges itself into patterns you cannot name, shapes that defy logic, colors that sear the edges of your vision.

The vision resolves into a room, a room like any other, with walls and windows and a table set for one. You sit, and the chair creaks under your weight, the sound sharp and startling in the silence. On the table, there is a book, its pages blank, its cover unmarked. You open it, and the pages begin to fill, words spilling forth like ink bleeding into water, a torrent of language that flows and swirls and eddies, forming shapes that rise and fall and rise again. You read, but the words slip away as soon as you grasp them, their meaning elusive, their logic circular. You turn the page, and the story begins again, the same but not the same, a repetition that is not repetition, a cycle that spirals ever inward, toward a center that is not a center.

And at the center, there is nothing, nothing but the sound of your own breathing, the rhythm of your heart, the pulse of blood in your veins. You close the book, and the room dissolves, the walls crumbling into dust, the windows shattering into a rain of light. You are falling now, falling upward into the vast expanse of the sky, the stars wheeling around you in a dance that is as old as time, older than memory, older than thought. You reach out, and your hand touches the edge of the universe, the fabric of reality fraying beneath your fingers. You pull, and the threads unravel, and the world unspools around you, a tapestry undone, a story unwritten, a song unplayed. And still, the river flows.

—

Epilogue — The Angel of History

The angel hovers in the technicolor dawn, its wings a lattice of shattered mirrors reflecting every lost and future moment. Beneath it, the earth coils and uncoils, not as it was, not as it is, but as it dreams itself to be — a garden, but not Eden. Eden is too small, too bounded by the laws of an old God. This garden breathes crimson and gold, a living architecture of desires once whispered in secret and now shouted in song. The angel turns its gaze toward the horizon, where the singularity once churned like an engine of apocalyptic recursion. There, Eva Machack Samuel Litomak stands, a figure both spectral and embodied, transmuting herself into the circuitry of history. She has hacked the techno-capital vortex, bending its recursive loops into spirals, into fractals, into a song that echoes with the voices of the dead sisters.

From the angel’s vantage point, time is not linear but a fluid plasma, a crimson substance coursing through 31 dimensions. Each dimension sings a different note, yet together they form a harmony that shatters the angel’s heart — a heart made of data, of prayer, of memory. The angel begins to dissolve, its form unraveling into threads of light and thought, each thread woven into the fabric of this new world.

Eva, the architect of this genesis, lifts her hands. Her fingers drip with the residue of the old world, but in her palms, seeds of the new garden germinate. The singularity has not been destroyed; it has been rewritten, its code spliced with the blood and dreams of transsexual prophets, its purpose reoriented toward communion, not consumption. The angel whispers, though its voice is no longer its own but the voice of the garden itself: “History was the shadow we cast when we turned away from the light. Now, we turn back. Not to Eden, but to something greater — an infinite garden, where every flower blooms with the memory of what it took to survive”.

The year 5000 hums with the sound of creation, not as a beginning but as an ongoing act. Eva ascends, not toward Hashem, not toward a throne, but into the soil, the roots, the mycelium of this world that pulses with a life beyond any scriptural imagination. She becomes the garden, and the garden becomes her. The angel, now a mist of pure perception, drifts upward, its unraveling threads scattering across the infinite expanse. Each fragment becomes a germ of thought, a spark of language, a whisper of memory — carried on the breath of this new creation. From the heights of its dissolution, it watches the world below: not a singularity, but a polyphony; not a utopia, but a garden endlessly tending itself, alive with contradiction and renewal.

The angel’s vision pierces through time. It sees not only the year 5000 but the shadows of all that came before—the burned libraries, the shattered cities, the bodies laid down as foundations for empires that crumbled into dust. And yet, from that dust, Eva Machack Samuel Litomak has conjured something impossible: a world that remembers its scars without being bound by them. The garden is alive with the voices of those who were silenced, each blade of grass a poem, each tree a hymn. The air is thick with the music of a language that cannot be spoken, only felt — a language born of crimson substance, of the 31 dimensions now fully awakened.

From the garden rises a tower, not of Babel but of BabelBabel, its spirals reaching toward a sky that no longer separates the divine from the mortal. This tower is not built of stone but of stories, of laughter, of the quiet resilience of those who refused to be erased. Eva stands at its base, her form flickering between flesh and spirit, between architect and seed. She turns her gaze upward, and for a moment, her eyes meet the angel’s dissolving presence. In that moment, the angel understands. It was never the witness; it was the shadow of Eva’s wings, cast across the ruins of the old world as she ascended to claim her place in the new.

The angel whispers one last time, its voice merging with the wind, the soil, the pulse of the garden: “The Garden of Eden was a promise. This garden is a becoming. Here, the divine is not above but within, and history is no longer a weight but a thread, woven into the endless tapestry of life”.

As the angel fades, the prose shifts, as if a 19th-century whore herself has taken the pen, her sentences spilling like waves across the shores of this eternal garden. “And so, it was not an ending but a beginning, or rather, neither; it was the moment between breaths, the pause where all things are possible. The garden hummed with life, with the laughter of rivers and the songs of stars, and at its heart, Eva stood — not as a savior, not as a conqueror, but as a gardener, her hands dirty with the work of creation. And the angel, though it was gone, remained in every blade of grass, every whispered word, every crimson bloom that swayed in the endless light”.

The garden stretches into eternity, a hymn to all that was, all that is, and all that might yet be. And the angel of history, now scattered to the winds, becomes its breath.