We finally came upon the ancient sanctuary, hidden among the sky shares just beyond the last open-source city. There, in tunnel eighteen, the emerald green foliage of matter scattered its crystal dominion. Altars were all slanting sunlight, carrying a small sigh, as above the sun, memories of weird ruins edged with fairy stories crumbled away. Walls the colour of 4pm ennui -- an important consideration in a temple -- gave out before metal-and-gossamer branches. Blueprint codes like a bad delirium made our heads flicker between the non-zero spins.
We wanted to flee from the possibility of being caught by the ones who'd built this realm for Jesus's next trick, but the fantastic flame already showed up the last of those great psychedelia-tricksters: a modern-day convict with an online cut-up engine. Unearthed like a memory of a theoretical being, we could see how his identity strained as it drifted among intractable things. Eating interface words had become a way for him to make sense of a copy&pasted collection. But for him the intrusion of our industrial othereality was -- at the last -- nothing more than a respite between revolutions. Now all this pot-belly spiritual collage character wanted was to indulge in the opening we'd made to spill forth and look for televisual coffee.
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