under wings of gloom and glory

the lack of updates is in no way justifiable, simply attributed to my current mental instability and tattered attempts to push these sick happenings into darker crevices of my mind's labrynth. these are undoubtedly botched attempts, as it will not go away, it will not go unnoticed.

today i was regretfully informed of cloaked, grotesque-faced figures nailing cryptic signs on the wooden poles of the most populous avenues. 'qualia contrived' or simply 'QC' were prevalant on all such inscriptions. the photo above was the clearest i could muster up in the heyday commute of my sorrounding area. of anyone locates such signs, i beg you to photograph and send them directly to my residence: the third apartment complex on the left, adjacent to the sycamores. lift the 17th cobblestone as coming from the alotted parking area and bury the specimin under a thin film of dirt. please, and thank you.

i am merely a messenger,
hunter s.

findings

this inscription was sighted and photographed at am 11th floor UArts student lounge, philadelphia pennsylvania. it is unbeknownst to me who or whom wrote this, and what their motivation was, but this has made it clear to me that i am not the sole target of this onslaught of mysticism.

i am sorry i have not been able to provide any news to you, the concerned reader, in a number of days far too high. i have been groping my way through the darkened labrynth of my mind without a lantern to guide me. i know those men in the drab gray robes, faces blurred, voices slurred, are lurking there somewhere and will reveal themselves if i continue on with the fervor i have been exerting. this whole ordeal has been causing me to develop a fair deal of psychosis and stress. i only hope, beings i hold the portkey to the prosperity of our futures, that i can solve this whole ordeal.

i am not trying to be heroic, i am simply consumed, like a babe wrapped in its pastel blanket contained within a wicker basket. in this case however, i am not free from the ball and chain of the outside world to drift off into deep sleep under the wing of motherly instinct. i am troubled, i am a mere messenger

sic semper tyrannus

you've made it this far. you must have seen something to spark your curiosity. well, you're in the right place. this will be the abode of the rest of your life, which, as you may know, is a series of marionette strings pulled tight and twisted. here's the story thus far:

i awoke one morning, on a date unimportant, in a place irrelevant, to find a typical crimson brick in such a position as to leave the tattered mat on my doorstep with the solemn expression 'COME'. upon further inspection i noted the juxtoposition of two strange words, written in the finest, machine-esque calligraphy. two jet-black monstrosities on a backdrop of crimson red: 'qualia contrived'

i had decided that the best route was to take the specimen down to my cellar, where, as a forensic scientist, i have all the tools of thorough autopsy. however, i had picked up the fragment of masonry to find the imprint of hyperrapid compost, the 'wel' had been completely worn away leaving only darkened humus interspersed with phosphorescent maggots. this was indoubtedly a symbol. the wellness was gone, all is sick and all is waste.

i gave forth my finest efforts in continuing on with my usual morning routine, but found it all at once monotonous and pointless. the two words, qualia contrived, stuck in my side like a pinprick, a vicious wasp, relentless to my plight. i slipped away into the darkest corner of the longest corridor within the townhouse complex i reside. clouts of mysticism hit like lightning. via astral projection i found what seemed to be myself in the tallest chair at a table of curators to the impending apocolypse. they sat, garnished in drab gray hooded robes, their faces mere shadows, speechless. periodically a sheet of blueprints was passed down the table to my lap. these blueprints, however, were undecipherable as the only lightning amidst these mysterious men was dim white candles and the prints themselves were scribed in some foreign tongue unseen in my journeys across this vast globe. one of these men stood to speak, but in this instant i was struck back to my bodily bounds, in that dark corridor, my hand severely crippled by means of the brick that still lie upon it. this was no brick, this was a portal to some intangible reckoning that would consume me like the bubonic plague.

please, as i try to piece these things together, put the two words 'qualia contrived' wherever you can to construct a bridge between our solid earth and the cosmos to which i have ventured.

i am a simple messenger,
spd