Beneath the daylight where we sleep, the orchestral avalanche of passing cars and the mechanical grind of the system that enslaves has left us haunted and empty.

As we push and pull, we rise and fall into the crowded noise like static – the constant clouding of our sunshine minds.

Mute days descend into tired months – the repetition of existence. Only the shroud of night offers salvation, the blackened blanket staving off the apocalypse of isolation.

At the zero hour, we gather in the darkness searching inner paths to outer worlds – an escape from the counterfeit dreams of our clockwork lives.

Howling like wolves in a synchronous serenade, we seek out the machines – the ghostly shrines.

We are waking up.

The machines – dark dormant monuments concealed by the routine grind of the masses and their diluted system-bred reveries – await nightfall in reverent quietude.

The obscured obsidian silhouettes are contrasted by a singular illumination –

‘Have a good trip – Psychedelics Anonymous’

When the raven firmament descends, the machines are alive – transformed into rapturous neon monoliths whispering the cure for our contaminated fantasies.

We keep midnight moving, vending the masks with our hallowed tokens, stripping our pseudo skin with psilocybin sanctitude. We can hear the world shift on its axis, racing through time with decentralised velocities toward this strange remedy.

The masks breathe kaleidoscopes, connecting us to the others in a paragon tapestry of arm-like membraned affinities – The Mycelium – the communication network of psilocin souls cradled within the embrace of each other.

We are connected.

We are called to higher dimensions like the enchanted profusion of neon liquid euphoria. Together, we echo the rhythms of convergent quantum telepathies – a cerebral sanctity beyond the draining tides of our oppressive concrete-laced depression.

Life reigns beautiful as we unite against the conundrums of the sun in waves of shared lunar prophecy. The quickening quickens as synapses and electrons combine along parallel tracks stretching without end.

A new collective consciousness dancing in the infinite spectrum of experiences we all simultaneously possess. Drifting in unison like snow-flaked rhapsody, we rise toward the undeniable sense of belonging to all things.

We are the future.

We ascend through the fibreglass roughness of our imposed reality – the night’s gift – knowing we must burn the ego, the final gatekeeper dividing us through the perpetual circles of black spiral infinities.

Inhaling miracles through firefly irises, we shed tears in pale petal transmutations. A reflective heaven emerges under the burning luminescence of midnight’s sun – painting the constellations of heartbeats in hurricanes and phoenix ashes.

Through the flames of dissolution and the symmetry of solace, The Divine Entities await with crystal spears pulsing xenon light into the spacetime of our continuum.

Untouched by time, they move with vintage veneration amidst the pantheons of eternal seasons melting into the cosmos – bestowing their wisdom in gentle currents as we live only inside the imprint of their palms against ours – time inside time.

We are one.

We live as dying cherry blossoms, pink inside the fury – reflecting the distance between us like mirrors in the dark.

This nocturne embrace exhales the rising and demising of wallflower nights and famine days – as the bone machine emerges from the tragedy of commons to meet the eternal evening.

Unfolding like fabric through the endless arcades of heresy and prayer, we are petals in bloom drowning yesterday with the emerald flames of lunar renascence.

We move in echoes against the tyranny of detachment, becoming shaman-trailblazers entranced by the quiet entwine of neutron and fire. Wrapped within the ruptured whispers of prism and space – the inexplicable calm – we measure the death of the morning.

We are alive.