The Chlorophyll Cathedrals of the Unborn Logic

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(A lost collaboration between Ernst Fuchs and H.R. Giger)

In the era after chronology dissolved, when clocks were repurposed as wind-harps for abandoned cities, the Chlorophyll Cathedrals rose—vast living structures that looked as though Fuchs had sculpted their sacred geometry while Giger whispered a darker biology into their roots. No one built them. They grew—exhaled from the compost of extinct rituals and the spores of semi-sentient vines that twisted themselves into baroque, bone-like arches.

Their walls shimmered with Fuchsian luminosity: iridescent greens unfolding with the precision of illuminated manuscripts. But in the depths, where the shadows pooled, Giger’s influence churned—tendril-spines, embryonic bulges, tissues arranged with unsettling symmetry. The result was neither divine nor demonic but something calmly ecstatic, as if the world itself had decided to recompose its anatomy.

Within these labyrinthine sanctuaries, the last humans wandered without language, shedding words the way serpents shed skins. Communication became osmosis—moist breath, enzyme-thoughts, gestures so slow they merged with the rhythm of root and rib. They no longer sought progress; they cultivated bewilderment.

Creatures, liberated from instinct, learned to molt. They abandoned their old forms, replacing them with nutrient-veined membranes glowing in polluted golds and poisonous greens—half vegetal, half unborn animal. New organs appeared: spiraled sensory nodes, muscular coils for tasting the weather, primitive stomachs to digest obsolete desires. Fuchs would have called them angels; Giger would have named them larvae of the inevitable.

The futurists—those prophets of acceleration—imagined chrome utopias. Instead, the world chose to become deliriously organic. Speed no longer meant velocity but mutation. The horizon wasn’t conquered; it regenerated.

In this Reality Beyond, nothing was invented—everything was incubated. Thought-ferns unfurled equations no one meant to solve. Emotion-tubers sprouted from communal soil. Even history became a living organism, crawling along the edges of consciousness, shedding centuries like skins.

No manifestos survived. Only one gesture remained: the refusal to stay in any fixed shape.

Thus the world breathed—magnificent, undirected—an eternal Dadaist improvisation, grown from the shared fever of Fuchs and Giger, pulsing toward stranger light.