et'Ada, Eight Aedra, Eat the Dreamer

[Transcribed from a spore-dream of an unidentified, evaporating Moth Priest that reached zero sum.]

The Aedroth Aka, who goes by so many names as to perhaps already suggest what I'm about to commit to memospore, is completely insane. His mind broke when his "perch from Eternity allowed the day" and we of all the Aurbis live on through its fragments, ensnared in the temporal writings and erasures of the acausal whim that he begat by saying "I AM". In the aetheric thunder of self-applause that followed (nay, rippled until convention, that is, amnesia), is it any wonder that the Time God would hate the same-twin on the other end of the aurbrilical cord, the Space God? That any Creation would become so utterly dangerous because of that singular fear of a singular word's addition: "I AM NOT"?

That all the Interplay is one flea of assertion on a wolf of naught, and that every experience (that is, everything) born from that primal wail would cascade unto the echo-need of hologram, each slice the same except for scale, and all the magic that would need to spring forth just to hold it together at living, divine cross-purpose, support struts made from the need to exist (axial, along its two-headed fighting rays, each refusing their origin point, that is, Tower), terrestons versus chronocules, and in the end (an end that ever refuses to hold) it all becomes a lobotomized (for what is not lobal if not the dracochoreography made flesh?), reptilian (coiled), and massive map-god (holding a compass, holding a timepiece), drooling (the water from which we dragged ourselves out of to say, mirror-like, autochthonic, automatic, "WE ARE, TOO") on his countless knees, dementia given dimension, dimension dementia...