Giger Counter Retro Recycling the One Trick Pony

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It begins in the twilight between circuitry and dream. A whisper moves through a garden of faces that are not quite faces — eyes seeded into flesh, into metal, into memory — and the rumor spreads that the universe is once again molting its certainty. Everything is alive, attentive, waiting.

At the center sits the figure with the burning filament between his lips. Not quite human, not quite deity, not quite hallucination, yet undeniably all three. His skull is a cathedral of branching nerves and spirals of living machinery. Thoughts bloom like vines. Emotions crawl as curious organisms. The illusion of separation between biology and technology dissolves; there never was a border, only comfort stories we told ourselves.

Around him hover small cosmic witnesses, infant-eyed entities with faces full of impossible innocence. They resemble creatures, spirits, unfinished worlds. They do not speak. They regard. Their attention says: Witness the unraveling of the trick.

Because we have always been performing the same act, the old cosmic carnival illusion — pretending to be separate, pretending to be small, pretending consciousness wasn’t a communal ocean. We were the one-trick pony on infinity’s stage. But the soul’s Giger counter is ticking now, not in warning, but in revelation. The radiation is recognition.

The candle burns — or rather, a flame woven from countless beings remembering light. It reveals roots entwined with tendrils, circuitry braided with veins, everything stitched to everything else with seamless intimacy. There is no “other.” There never was.

The smoking figure exhales. The smoke becomes geometry. Geometry becomes language. Language blossoms into the absurdly simple, impossibly vast truth:

Nothing here is foreign. You are standing inside the expanded cathedral of your own forgotten divinity.

The watchers smile gently, as if they always knew you’d arrive. The biomechanical hive hums like a rediscovered song. The pony bows, not in defeat but in completion — the old performance dissolving, the next wonder rising.

And in that electrified hush, it becomes clear: consciousness endlessly recycles itself into masks, mythologies, faces that look like dreams carved from bone and star-sap. We are here to see, to breathe, to participate in the shimmering cosmic joke — finally remembering that none of us were ever alone.