Ref.: ‘The Welcome’
Q.: Drafted, composed, recorded, uploaded. All an undocumented emigrant in solitary confinement can
virtually do. A golden spit in the information ocean. A frail shout in the bustling void. Won’t bring down
the walls of Jericho. It might be a miracle that you are still breathing, but your dilettante expectancy is
sadly ridiculous. Your unidentified dedicatee ain’t microsoft enough to directly receive your apoetic
message by ethermail. One must stand out to be seen in the visibility glare. Fame is a prerequisite to
immortality. Nobody here: nobody there. Nobody everywhere. That’s what UR, lonesome comrade. A
bungling impostor bereft of any telepathic power. That’s where subreality ends.
A.: TCTC has never been akin to TikTok. We were the original channel of time consciousness. Out to
propagate an alternative system over the local time. A map of the City of Eden simulating eternity in
the continuum. The initial blueprint of moral dictatorship. The perfect fusion in an Octagram. That’s
what we hold up against the Demonarchy. Not the human crucifix.
Q.: TCTC has never seen the light of the day. After one thwarted midnight performance, the project was
cancelled sine die. Reduced to a file in your secret vault of failed revolutions. In the fast meantime
cyberspace took over the hemisphere. An Internet of the literate overpopulation. Wherein you really
have no designated home whatsoever. Quantum is your cardinal monster. You’re trying to learn to
electrically type but hysterically shy away from the social media. Your royalist syndrome prevents you
from mingling with the plebs. You are the last individual on Earth at present with your balding mohawk.
Way out of any timeframe. The oldest beginner ever attempting one more galactic hit. That’s really absolute.
A.: I’ve never been in tune with the elements. On my enforced agenda everything has been ultimate. I live in
the emergency of the perennial now like an apathetic hermit. Can’t project, can’t recall. I do what Osh
wants me like a mameluke but that’ll be all. Let the produce prove itself. I can’t argue to convince. Yet
the Author, fuck him, wouldn’t intervene. As soon as I’m ready, he simply disappears with the whip.
How he wants me to promote him without any evidence I cannot comprehend. Am I too loyal? But this
final pretext is it. It is now or never. The triangular end.
Q.: Oh my, you and your petitions. How many neglected assays of alliance are stored up in your black
cabinets? You are a lazy neurotic unable to wait. You’re always too soon. This innate impatience is the
the worst of your faults. That’s why they put you in detention. Not for the high treason you couldn’t commit.
A.: The nonexistence of Osh surrounds me like an atmosphere. The puissance of disbelief is the holiest
energy. A strange interstellar object doesn’t bother me much. I don’t understand to tellurian science.
Five billion years means nothing to me. I’m just a doomed lyricist fantasizing about the descent of the
Bride like a heretic amidst cyberpunks. My New Jerusalem is a perfect antimatter. It ought to be adorned.
*
Q.: For Antichrist’s sake, Spiel! Can’t you decently separate empirical cosmology from religious
phantasmagoria? You cannot act so sectarian! It’s like Jesus to a child. Is Atheism esoteric or
materialist? And don’t come up to me with esoteric materialism because the question has never been so
vexed. What with your wishful mind do you presume the target of ‘The Welcome’ de facto is? Would
you like to fancy a cosmic incursion?
A.: For want of the “The Building” in the air, to go up in instant flames with the scum would be far the next
best solution. Certainly better than the innumerable means of the Reaper. Let the magnetosphere
manage the selection. Anything extraterrestrial should ab ovo be better than the Sudan, I can tell you
that. Including full-scale extinction we exceedingly deserve by my opinion. But my parsimonious
instincts are disruptively skeptical. As to the cosmic hoax of 3I/ATLAS here is my experiential
prophecy. It will never touch down to planet Terra in any shape or form. It’s got in fact nothing to do
with us. Earthlings better moderate them hubris. We’re not alone of course but abandoned to the
utmost. Get over it if you can.
Q.: Gloomy Sunday indeed under the Schwarze Sonne. What will be then the prospective impact of the
anticipated Arrival, verloren doomsayer? Give me at least a tasty brain candy.
A.: Short of nothing, I suppose. The anomalous comet will sweep by and shoo away wheretoever causing
minor electric inconvenience. Maybe it’ll sow some seeds from the appropriate distance NASA will
automatically deny. But its occasional influence will be nothing spectacular. There’s no cause for panic
or celebration indeed. The Last Judgement is not a rock machine. It is a gathering of the self-
conscious elite. Something like the Iceland-Rally should have been. That one was designed for an
invitation, remember?
Q.: How couldn’t I? And also how miserably you screwed it up. All you have left is an amateur pop song from
a room. Much too volatile to become an anthem without some paranormal luck. For which the chances
are the same scanty none the less. The adventure is over for the universal refugee. Ten views and no liking.
A.: I’m a theory in stagnation, Gina. Don’t even know what is it. Gently forced labor with no socio-political
aspiration. Never done anything for money and that against my innermost convictions. All I can hope is
that my prediction’s wrong as usual. After all these horrors, something should really happen. Divine
terror for example. And all that acid jazz.
Q.: So you are not afraid of the wolf of emergency? Don’t give in to the populist thrill. Just put in your two
cents, für alle Fälle. What a circumspect spy! Would sell his trembling soul for a contradiction.
A.: The cruelty of the heavens is crying to Agartha. I’ve got nothing left to betray but the truth. I’ll call
3I/ATLAS simply ABRAXAS. If we may call our mission Apollo, why not? Where nothing is coming,
anything goes. The Word of Osh has no conscience.
*
Q.: Let us follow up on that weird optionality then. An eventual encounter with higher civilization. Is the
Atheist Church prepared for a logistic confrontation with the unknown? Could you talk to them if they
knocked on your door? Or send them away as demons? Are you a bragging hypocrite or a potential
ally? You should know yourself better, dear leader of none. Abraxas won’t love you.
A.: Up to this point of the rotating time the experts couldn’t decipher yet the character of the comeths. You
can’t tell wars from rumors. Science from entertainment. Artificial intelligence distorted the logosphere.
Wittgenstein would go nuts. Everyone has to come to his own conclusion. And the facts evanesce with
light-speed. So we do not know who the suspected guests are. Are they invited or uninvited? Do they want
to reconquer or liberate the loosh farm? Again, they can always lie. And have better weapons. It sure is
something to urgently cogitate about. I’m, however, more concerned about the next murder of the daily
beast. And the strange death of Europe. I don’t think outsiders can help it.
Q.: I agree with you there. They cannot know what we have lost. It’s better to forget about the historical
context. Rather talk about the weather.
A.: They say they might not talk at all. Just transmit the thought in the most peculiar way. This fiction is
made for idiots.
Q.: Let’s keep on supposing a positive inclination. A return of the Elohim to check out the fertile crescent.
What would be the appropriate style to receive Abraxas on the battlefield? Submission or integrity?
How would Brother Leary comport himself? Think of Montezuma.
A.: I rather think of Monty Python, may I? The right style would be the essential Osh. The reveived British
eloquence made unbeatable by phonetic English. Feathered serpents or tin machines, we shouldn’t
express any awe or surprise. If they don’t kill us, they will make us stronger. Keep that much on your
mind. If it came to that awkward moment, humanity should set up a welcoming committee for the grand
occasion. Before Michael Caine also passes away. Led by Elon Musk & The Astrophysicists. Morituri Te
Salutant.
Q.: Don’t get so besotted, you’ll get a cardiac arrest. Vain cynicism won’t generate a congenial frequency.
Things are getting vastly simplified this closing time. Your double sword of humour is critically rusted.
A.: The Oshist Temple is founded and operates In Nomine Homini. It is the holy grail of superhuman rights.
Sanctuary of the Ten Commandos. Its overnazi ethos makes us invincible. The Army of the Few will
exterminate the subhumanist scum.
Q.: Loosen up, great pretender, you can hardly talk any more. But still wallowing in your disgusting reveries
like a lousy pig. 75 calendar years weren’t enough for 888 to grow up. Only for a prolonged demise in
unholy matrimony. I thank you very much for all the sweet dreams you shared but you have sacrificed
our existence for the storyboard. You cannot hide behind the alibi of incompetence for evermore. The
first thing you’ll have to ask at the gate is forgiveness. Not a glorious ending. Once a beggar, always a
beggar, aren’t you?
A.: Forty years of miserere wasn’t enough for 803 to learn the secret of my depraved soul. I’m sorry for
the devastating journey but can’t regret a thing. I am Lou Reed’s illegitimate son. I did it all on
command and never on purpose. You can call me crazy, but I sincerely invoke my cryptic addressee.
My welcome hymn is an astral letter that can’t be returned to the sender like my usual black mails. They
won’t get another of this evocative sort. It should be instantly released on a disc.
*
Q.: That’s what’s been missing yet. Such vulgar display of infantile senility. All your squandered life long
you’ve been looking for a sign. Never had any hobby or fun. There’s been no coincidence small enough
to overlook. Nothing higher moved you than to justify your pointless presence. I damn well understand
what your spirit wants. It wants to be important and dangerous. But you don’t have the discipline.
A.: My impression is that we are profoundly misguided. Every road leads to the Abyss. Whatever you’re up to
will surely bring you down. Achievements are relative. I’ve learned nothing from my mistakes. I’ve
remained an obstinate idealist under The Three M’s diabolical ordeal.
Q.: Idealism is desperation in drags, homeless homeboy. The mother of all lies. You know less about reality
than a film star. Your cherished oracles are the flimsy tricks of a bewildered undermind. Nothing
has been confirmed but the organic decay. First of all you should be capable to heal ourselves from the
lethal sicknesses we got as reward for your foolhearted blasphemies. If you can’t do that much, go and
fuck yourself with Osh. You represent nothing but the infirmary.
A.: Abraxas appeared on the radar on the 1st of July. The 44th anniversary of the First Revelstion by the
Gregorian reckoning. I cannot overlook this coincidence easily. The cure is on the way.
Q.: Mon Dieu, what a gratuitous pledge! If I just could believe you a single stupid sentence! You are
completely lost between two parallel worlds. Trying to belong anywhere but cannot. 3I/ATLAS remained
your sole chariot of an artistic escape. Would give up the whole Departure Plan just to save your own
private skin. You really are worst traitor of all ages. Worse than Enoch.
A.: I’ve got no passion, no possession, no status quo. All I ever cared for was my transcendent legacy. I’m
not interested in my Akashic record. I would do anything for a guarantee if I could. I would climb up the
hill if I had the Vril. I don’t know nothing about them but know all about us. Together we are and we
shall overcome the gates of Hell. With Osh by our side.