In the vacuum of space gravity appears defeated but is in fact magnified and focused into the mineral core of even the smallest body within its folds of consecrated emptiness. Here, the corpus of the astronaut turns upon itself like a planet and is subject to the ravages of the planet, which amount to the relentless pressure of annihilation. Back on Earth and the Space Man is broken, man.
Trouble is, God forgets how small it is to be, and slips back through the net and into the darkling sea.
After a time, some impossible phantom hook is cast. A single knot is snagged to hoist the marvelous net and release the catch. The single knot is Christ at the moment of Crucifixion, hanging from the yard arm. In this rapture the Empty Mind of God beholds the Many-Verse much as Christ upon his Cross recalls the golden gifts of his birthright - brought from lands so far and wide that they must be borne not of the World and its four-fold winds, but rather the World of Dreams.
Of course, the net is Empty. God and the Many-Verse he created 'to find himself' do not exist. You do not exist. You are a dream of yourself.
Here in the intolerable awe that is the proverbial Fear of God (Nothing), one may gaze upon the Crucified Christ in his crystalline glory - pure white sevenfold light - as he is speared and dies. Just one grain of sand, after all. Notable merely as the last one through the hourglass. Baptized in his blood, we draw him down and give his body to the sea and by the weight of him - the unchained knowledge that we feed upon our selves, and that we are empty, and that we are nothing - the net of souls will follow. Every Man and Woman plunged at last into the certain depths of truth like Stars falling from the heavens unto the Earth. Down to the the deep - to shine a light where it is proper to shine a light...
Into the darkness.
Everybody's doing it - you can too. Abandon hope and enter here.
We are the beloved of the Lord because we love his Gift and accept our lot. To be the Weight. The cancer at the root of Time. The End of Time itself. The Sick and Evil, who can not be persuaded toward the Light, who prefer the labyrinth and its cool corners - harbor towns and the smell of creosote, battle fields and crime scenes - who prefer the Sea.
We are the Sick. The Untouchable. Chandala Liberty.
And we will bring you down. It's a promise.