Into the gleaming future. Episode Image.

They're taking back the space. 

Into the gleaming future. Episode Eight. meets Magic obliterates world sins. Sixth Sin

An event-tempest is breaking in the future, and its terrible light is cast in all the seven directions, west, east, north, south, down, up, and inside. Walking through the threshold, strolling by the rim of an abyss with an invisible floor, sheltered by spirits, gods, ideas that hold fast our hands and keep us from falling…

Into the gleaming future. Episode Eight.

What was old turned new renew itself once more, by retaking the old names. For reasons that escape the analytical reason of researchers, experts and intellectuals that have devoted their life to these cultural issues, all the old, pagan rituals that sooner or later were Christianised or Muslimised or changed by newer faiths, returned to the languages bare of theology and openly, directly embracing fruition of immediacy. The tall stones, the hardly accessible places, the dark houses, the dense woods, the stripped hills, all watercourses, the promontories, the deep abysses, the cracks in the stonewalls: all new temples, new pilgrimships.  

Into the gleaming future. Episode Seven.

Chernominemata here, Chernominemata there, Chernominemata everywhere. 

Into the gleaming future. Episode Six.

Truth to be said, every single creature took pleasure from the fact that in one step of his, her or its own evolution, while a phoetus, lived an all-female phase.

Into the gleaming future. Episode Five.

They’ve taken back cordiality, rituals, colours.
Some people, retracting to the back of their minds, started to recognise each other by smell, like dogs.
Hybrids - sons and daughters to sin, under any light -, they walked with their heads held high, mingling with the crowd. The limbic smiles returned.
The reptilian nightmares were just around the corner.

Into the gleaming future. Episode Four.

The problem is that no one event precedes of follows another. There is no cause and consequence, action and reaction. The notion of motor subsided. Everything is admitted in the worldly, phenomenological screen. Only our words and thoughts glue things together, creating a reassuring illusion of the causality principle. The interaction of events, the continuity of reality is nothing more than an aspect of collective paranoia.
And I want answers, not hesitations. The scrutiny, however, was counterproductive. As I dusted the ground looking for clues and guiding lines, I erased the few that were left.

Into the gleaming future. Episode Three.

An empire is born from the fallen bricks of another empire. The little Mussolinis guaranteed that from the ruins of the last fallen empires nothing more would last except for, precisely, ruins. And the dust of bricks is not enough to assemble a single new brick. In increasingly smaller fragments, there’s no structure left, even if symbolical. Power… what are flags, stars, fire or dirt under the nails good for? The words of order multiplied to such an extent that they don’t fit the larynxes. And the huge clouds that float above do not mirror the fences and ink-traced lines in the ground. Mammals mark territory with excrements. Mammals with a few more brain circumvolutions mark territory with ink-and-paper shit, not a lesser stench.
Divide to conquer. In less than seventy years, with so many divisions and sub-divisions, there was nothing left to carve up. The blood of cowards was shed with the blood of the brave, one amalgamation covering the maps.
Sebek. He who incessantly bites his own tail, he who devours himself, and is born within and from himself.
The ulterior wars to the Rekonquista, commandeered by the interests of the Paisans, became a single panfagic war, leaving no new hopes for Phoenix’ hatchings.

Into the gleaming future. Episode Two.

The frontiers the inhabitants of the beginning of the second Millennium CE (we) established between technology and life, science and magic, mechanics and biology, anumal and rational, intuitive and organised, have totally dissipated. The interval between natural and artificial makes no sense at all anymore.
Computer’s inner circuits complemented silicon with vegetable veins, in which sap served as thermo-electrical information conductor, with living tissue and blood veins and nerves and true synapses. Quantum leap transfers, particle accelerators and enchantments assured the energetic transport from bio-ordenative module to module.
Hydraulic pumps breathed and steam engines and clockwatch-machines vibrated inside amniotic liquids, and thoughts curved the space in electrical schools.
People no longer understood rationally how things worked. No one wanted to know. The conservation and recovery silos, as well as the half-mechanical, half-alive production centrals, controlled by biological programmes, emerged in the horizon as if moved by fascinating, unknown magic.
This situation’s seed was the very language of each particular branch of knowledge: so specific, complex and hermetic that, by augmenting in geometrical proportion the gap in between them, collapsed. A marine biologist no longer understood a palaeontologist, who did not comprehend a nuclear engineer, who would not know what a mathematician was saying. And none could talk to the common citizen anymore.
The very existence of categories and frontiers met its final entropy. Science was allowed everything. Moreover, everything was possible. Fiction became ex-fiction became scientific laws. Medieval bestiaries came to life. Myths became flesh. Will was power enough to realize, and “absurd”, “aberrant”, “incongruous”, were liquified into blinding “possibility”.

Into the Gleaming Future. Episode 1.

It was one of those things you think only happens to other people, far, far away.
But this was getting closer by the minute, as cumulus in the distance drawing near, and you see the clear skies being coverer by leadish darkness.
There’s dust on the streets. Dust that used to be dirt, earth, biological material, perhaps even time and hope.
To seek perfection is a sin. Rules are rules, and the price one must pay may have been written a long time ago (possibly in a gigantic quarterbound in full cloth, blocked in gold, with an infinite number of sandpaper pages, and fastened by a chain to a man’s wrist. He looks like a man, but he possibly isn’t one, for “he casts no shadow”).
Who seeks perfection, pays with return. Not to Paradise, though.