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Originally posted by Demoted First you must contact the High Oracle. More often than not, this Oracle is in a glass box handing out little rectangular decision papers which you must provide a monetary substitute for and in return you receive the rectangular decision paper. Then you must pass under the great arch. There are many wingéd wyverans and the diaspora will begin to set in right about here. Soon, the agoraphobia. Suddenly, scintillating lights will surround you as though you'd stumbled upon a bed of will o' wisps. A scathing energy will settle at your feet and trail up the whole of your spine, every capillary seething with bitter angst. A loud crash, a thunderous boom, a satiating resonance that reverberates in your sternum. The rising of a majestic whooshing sound that remains stoic for about a half an hour. You wander lost, amongst the throng of sweaty myrmidons. Each one with minute discs that all of them ingest readily. The substance contained within appears to make them more apt to the innocuous rhythm that infests every pore and synapse. You're getting closer now, you can feel it, everyone can, there's a heaven underneath it all. You're offered one of these discs, two of these discs, four of them, you take them all at once. Well, three of them, the other is suggested to be placed inside your undercarriage, you think it peculiar, but are merely an apprentice and novice of this shamanic medicine and therefor wilt to the notion and happily allow someone to place it there. With force. Tracers begin to form on everything. Lights last forever in one place, or do they? Each thought interlaced with the other. The entire speech from Human Traffic applies. A cold sweat emanates from your chest. Uneasy, and decidedly unsettled, you lie down with a group who appears to have succumb to a similar affliction. Each one of them babbling something inane as the fairy symphony does way, smiting each idea of good music with the eternal harp of disarray. These people begin to disrobe you. They begin to rub you down with a gelatin substance and hand you a cylindrical object they tell you to inhale deeply from. And you do this. Willingly. You're in the stars now, each galaxy a penny on this never ending golden sidewalk. The penetrating fingers can barely be felt, temples surging forth with frothy disposition. Leaning inward and outward of a predetermined reality, once a bunker now a saucer now a cottage now a field, now a sub-field. Shifting in and out, you find yourself alone, a nomad in a sea of the hedonists. Only now their eyes glare at you and only you, expectantly unexpected. The dancers descend from the ceiling, he drops his remix of Delerium's 'Silence'. It's as though the seraphs were falling, as though they'd forgotten how to fly in the face of true perfection. The hi-hats being slaughtered effortlessly by the vocals meshing involuntarily with your body's tepid and partial half-stepping. The drool forms upon the tip of your chin. Then you notice the blood. There's not a little bit, but a lot. It's all over you. You're drenched in blood. You notice hairs on your body that aren't yours, first on your forearm, then all over. You begin to realize, as the affliction is wearing off, that you are also entirely nude. And that they're after you. Three hours later you find yourself in an off-white room with off-white chairs and an entirely off-white demeanor. Sterile and cold. You're incarcerated. Rape they say. She was only 17. Magik Muzik.

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