“Beyond Biocentrism: Rethinking Time, Space, Consciousness, and the Illusion of Death” by Robert Lanza, MD with Bob Berman

Chapter 6: The End of Time

The more precisely we pin down one aspect of an object, like its position, the less well known its motion becomes. It depends on what one is looking for and what measuring equipment is used. In reality, Heisenberg said, “all possibilities simultaneously exist until a single one materializes upon observation”. Suppose we wish to know which slit or given electron or proton has gone through on its way to the barrier. It’s a fair enough question and it’s easy enough to find out. We can use polarized light. This is light whose waves are not all scrambled up the way they usually are. But instead vibrate either horizontally or vertically. There orientation can also be slowly rotated. Light is polarized in nature when it is reflected, for example— which is why your sunglasses can remove the glare from windows or ocean surfaces. They have been treated to block the reflected polarized light, yet if you cock your head suddenly those reflections appear. Thus, each polarized lens is set at an angle that allows only one of the two kinds of photons to pass through the gap, effectively tagging these bits of light and letting us know the “which way” path the photon traveled. When a mixture of assorted polarizations is used we get the same result as before, but now let’s determine which slit each individual photon is passing through, by using light of either a vertical or a horizontal polarization.

Many different techniques have been used but it doesn’t matter which method we choose, the important point is that we employ a setup that lets us determine the which way information for each electron or photon as it heads through one of the gaps towards the detector. So we repeat the experiment, shooting photons through slits one at a time, except this time we will learn what slit each photon traverses. We can gain such which way knowledge by placing polarizing lenses in front of each opening, as depicted in figures 6-3, and shooting a scrambled ensemble of light containing photons with both horizontal and vertical alignments. The polarizing lenses act like markers or toll booths. Each lens blocks all light except for photons with the correct polarization. So, if we have a vertical polarizer on the right slit, then we know that only vertically polarized photons can penetrate it and strike the final barrier. By having the lens in front of the right slit oriented to one polarization and the left slit guarded with the opposite polarization, we will learn which way each photon went. Because only an up down oriented photon can penetrate the right lens, and only a sideways photon can go through the other one.Image
Figure:  6-3  - “Beyond Biocentrism: Rethinking Time, Space, Consciousness, and the Illusion of Death” by Robert Lanza, MD with Bob Berman
In short, we have gained “which way” information. Astonishingly, the results now dramatically change. Even though our slit detector is known not to alter photons or electrons, we no longer get the interference patterns seen in figure 6-2. Now the results suddenly change to what we’d expect if the photons were particles. A mass of bullet hits on the detector screen behind each slit, as in figure 6-1. The wave pattern showing interference is gone. Something happened—turns out, the mere act of measurement, of learning the path of each photon destroyed the photons freedom to remain blurry and undefined, and take both paths, until it reached the final detection screen. It’s probabilistic wave function must collapse at our “which way” measuring device, because this time we are essentially observing and gaining knowledge before the photon hits the slits, as well as at the detector in the back. Its wave nature was lost the instant each photon lost its blurry, probabilistic, not quite real state.

But why should the photon have chosen to collapse its probabilistic wave function? How did it know or care that “we” the “observer” could learn which slit it went through? Countless attempts to get around this by the greatest minds of the past century have failed. Our knowledge of the photon or electron path alone caused it to become a definite entity, ahead of the previous time. Of course physicists also wondered whether this bizarre behavior might be caused by some interaction between the “which way” detector or various other devices that have been tried, and the photon, but no. Totally different which way detectors have been built, none of which in anyway disturbs the photon. Yet we always lose the “interference pattern” since the measured photon invariably changes its nature from a wave to a discrete particle.Figure: 6-2 - “Beyond Biocentrism: Rethinking Time, Space, Consciousness, and the Illusion of Death” by Robert Lanza, MD with Bob Berman
The bottom line conclusion reached after many years is that it’s simply not possible to gain which way information and produce the interference pattern caused by “energy waves”. This which way experiment illustrates that photons can exist as a particle, which it must be if it is to pass through just one slit at not both or as a wave, which blurredly penetrates both simultaneously. But they cannot be seen to be both, a particle and a wave. Again, the main point is that where we observe the photon or electron is what makes it become one or the other, and just in case you’re suspicious of the detectors, note that when used in all other contexts, including double slit experiments without the information providing which way read outs at the end, polarizing lenses never have the slightest effect on the creation of an interference pattern.

We’re left with no choice, but to accept that our presence as an observer and how we make the observation physically changes what we’re looking at, but we need more persuasion. Turns out the tool for reaching the next level of proof arrives with one of quantum theories wildest realities, “particle entanglement.”

#Excerpts #GoodReads #Bookboost #BeyondBiocentrism #QuantumPhysics #DoubleSlitExperiment #ConsciousnessFigure: 6-1 - “Beyond Biocentrism: Rethinking Time, Space, Consciousness, and the Illusion of Death” by Robert Lanza, MD with Bob Berman

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More from @CarliFrueh

Jun 13
Yo, book lovers and thrill-seekers, strap in for a wild, brain-twisting dive into Ingersoll Lockwood’s “The Travels and Adventures of Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger!” I have generated a thread highlighting some of George Wharton Edwards illustrations—bursting with dreamy color, dejavu, and that raw 1890s swagger. Picture Little Baron Trump, the gutsy lil’ genius, charging through different realities with his ride-or-die doggo, Bulger, by his side. This overlooked memoir that’s half sci-fi, half fantasy and speculative fiction. These visuals? Epic. An understatement.

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The Elder Baron and Baroness grew very thin.The Elder Baron and Baroness grew very thin.
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Captain Go-Whizz and the Lieutenant threaten the Little Baron. Captain Go-Whizz and the Lieutenant threaten the Little Baron.
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Bulger and I sail away from the land of the UMI LOBAS (Man-Hoppers in my bedside yacht. - “The Travels and Adventures of Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger!” By Ingersoll Lockwood. Illustrations by George Wharton Edwards. Bulger and I sail away from the land of the UMI LOBAS (Man-Hoppers in my bedside yacht. - “The Travels and Adventures of Little Baron Trump and His Wonderful Dog Bulger!” By Ingersoll Lockwood. Illustrations by George Wharton Edwards.
Read 16 tweets
Jun 5
In Hollywood, stars like Nicole Kidman, Elizabeth Montgomery, Jim Carrey, and George Jones don't just shine—they time-travel or sip eternity, because only vampires and chrononauts stay that iconic! Image
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In the shadowed heart of Hollywood, Nicole Kidman, Elizabeth Montgomery, Jim Carrey, and George Jones don't merely dazzle—they defy time itself, eternal vampires or daring time-travelers, their stardom a haunting dance through centuries!" Image
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They like to revisit past lives so to speak… Image
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Read 6 tweets
Jun 1
The Invisible Enemy – 11 Common Parasites Linked to Cancer

Parasites are silent invaders, and many are linked to deadly cancers. Here are the 11 most common parasites worldwide known or suspected to cause cancer, along with how their associated cancers are treated in the United States. Awareness and prevention are key to fighting these invisible threats! #CancerAwareness #GlobalHealth

1. Schistosoma haematobium (Blood Fluke)
Cancer: Bladder cancer (squamous cell carcinoma).
Infects ~112 millionSchistosoma haematobium (Blood Fluke)   Cancer: Bladder cancer (squamous cell carcinoma).     Infects ~112 million
Schistosoma haematobium (Blood Fluke)   Cancer: Bladder cancer (squamous cell carcinoma).     Infects ~112 million
2. Opisthorchis viverrini (Liver Fluke)
Cholangiocarcinoma (bile duct cancer).
Infects ~10 million Image
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3. Clonorchis sinensis (Liver Fluke)
Cholangiocarcinoma, hepatic carcinoma.
Infects ~35 million Image
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Read 12 tweets
Jun 1
French Montana’s hands slash the air, a titan’s decree,
Fingers point, fists rise, sparking the crowd’s glee.
Each thrust carves his tale, raw as the street’s own beat,
A king’s bold script, where hustle, rhythm and death meet.
Aaliyah’s hands weave silk, tracing the song’s soft arc,
Palms lie, wrists whisper, kindling the heart’s spark in time.
Her touch sets the tone, with the inky blackness of her bones, guiding a dance, move, art spell — watching the binding, seducing its pain. Steadily binding the souls attracted to music and score, they use magic for bad to topple worlds. Some say the bindings of soul in this layer works for the betterment of man, I say open your real eyes and feel for truth. Truth in a world where evil doesn’t reign and our dreams aren’t hijacked when we sleep, only -light hearted starlight where dreams never part. …Image
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In our new gestures, truth flares—one fierce, one divine—
our hands now shape our worlds, where spirits intertwine.

French Montana’s hands no longer hold a negative effect over me. No longer does Aaliyah whisper in my ear. We have carved out the ill air, the bold and the brash, the seductress too. The fist pumps that aligned with chaos only now drives a beat, imploring
the crowd’s flash with something new, something good.Image
Aaliyah’s fingers still dance, but soft as a lover’s sigh,
Tracing melodies where dreams and skies comply.
My hands weave tales, one fierce, one serene,
Revealing the pulse where all good spirits convene. Image
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Read 6 tweets
May 28
Keynotes: Book of Enoch + Giants
Mount Hermon + Para-mount pictures + Stars
Fallen Angels + Idols + Los Angeles + The holly-wood
Entrain-ment 👀 What I miss?📕

📖📚Excerpts by Ingersoll Lockwood - Chapter 2

“The elder Baron uncertain as to the exact locality of my birth. Reasons why will be given later. My parents traveling in Africa at this time. The elder Baron’s remarkable ascent of the Mountains of the Moon. Miraculous escape from the impenetrable fog. How accomplished. In the land of the Melodious Sneezers. All that happened there. How the King of the Melodious Sneezers conducted my parents in great honor to his palace, and how they were treated by him.

THE MUZZLED MULES

While it lies within my power to gratify the curiosity of my readers as to what part of the world it was in which I first saw darkness—for I was born in the night—yet, as to the nature of the immediate spot on which I was born, unfortunately I am able to do more than repeat my father’s words when questioned as to this point.
“My son, if I were on my death-bed I could only say that thou wert either born in the centre in a great lake, on an island, upon a peninsula or on the top of a very high mountain, as I have often explained to thee.”

Let it suffice, then, gentle reader, for the present, for me to inform you that at the time of my birth, my parents were traveling in Africa; that my father had just successfully accomplished one of the most wonderful feats in mountain climbing, namely, the ascent of the loftiest peak of the Mountains of the Moon; that his guides had abandoned him upon his reaching a particularly dangerous spot in the ascent; but that he had pushed forward without them, and reached the summit after several days of terrible privation, suffering both hunger and thirst,—it being a peculiarity of the atmosphere after passing a certain height that the muscles of the face and throat became paralyzed and the unfortunate traveler either perishes from hunger or thirst while in the very presence of delicious fruit and cool, limpid water.

Upon rejoining my mother, who had accompanied him as far up the mountain side as the best-trained and most surefooted mules could find a foot-hold, they proceeded to make their way, as they supposed, to the valley from which they had first set out.
An impenetrable fog now shut them in and they soon found themselves hopelessly and helplessly wandering about.
On the morning of the third day the fog had even increased in thickness, closing around them like a pall, almost shutting out the light of day.
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While groping about my father had come into contact with the two beasts of burden which had served him in the easier parts of the ascent. They were quietly and unconcernedly browsing upon the sweet and tender shrubs which grew on the mountain side.
Suddenly an idea came to my father. It was born of that desperation which makes a man think long and hard before lying down to die.

It was thus he reasoned: If these animals are permitted to eat their fill whenever their appetites demand, they will be quite willing to stay where they are, especially when they find themselves surrounded by such excellent pastures, and, in addition thereto, quite relieved from all toil. Let them, however, feel the pangs of hunger, or better yet, starvation’s tooth at their vitals and their thoughts will at once revert to their homes, their masters, their feeding-troughs and they will lose no time in setting out for the village where they belong. With the energy of despair, my father hurriedly bound a piece of canvass over their mouths so that they could neither graze nor drink and awaited the results of his experiment, with bated breath, for the tears and groans of my poor mother, whose strength was fast ebbing away, smote him to the very soul.

After a few hours the animals rose to their feet and became very restive, and in another hour their hunger had so increased that they were making frantic efforts to feed, as my father could easily tell from the jerking of the line which he had been careful to attach to their headstalls.

After the fourth hour there was a long silence, during which the animals seemed to be deliberating as to what course they should pursue.

The fifth hour came.

My mother had sunk to rest, weak and weary, in my father’s arms. Suddenly there was a tightening of the guiding lines. Gently my father aroused his sleeping mate, whispering a few words of comfort.

Again the lines tightened.

My parents were now on their feet, peering into the depths of the impenetrable fog which shrouded them about and made them even invisible to each other.
Hist! the animals move again! with a sudden impulse, as if their minds had at last solved the problem which had been bewildering them for several hours, the beasts, with violent snortings turned from the spot, pushing through the shrubbery and causing my parents to face quite about.

Evidently there was a complete accord between the conclusions reached by their intelligence or instinct, for not once did they pull apart or come to a halt, except when restrained by my father. And thus my dear parents were saved! All that day and part of the next did they pursue their dreary way. The fog at last lifted, and it was at once apparent to my father that, although the animals were guiding them towards human habitations, yet it was not the land he had quitted upon starting out upon the journey to the mountain peak. The path now became so plainly visible that my father removed the improvised muzzles from the two animals and allowed them to satisfy their hunger, which they proceeded to do with the keenest relish. So worn out was my mother that she sank helpless to the ground. Refreshing her with a draught of spring-water and the juice of some wild grapes, my father hastily prepared a bed of soft foliage, upon which they were both glad to throw themselves after their long and weary tramp.
They had soon fallen into a deep and most delightful sleep. How long they lay on their leafy bed, wrapt in their refreshing slumber, they knew not.Image
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It certainly was for many a long hour; for when they awoke, hunger was gnawing at their stomachs. Fain would they have at once proceeded to gather fruit, had not their ears been suddenly saluted with most extraordinary noises. They rubbed their eyes and looked about and at each other, deeming themselves the sport of some merry jack-a-dreamer.

But, no; they were wide awake and in full possession of their senses. Again the strange sounds are heard and this time they are nearer and clearer.There is a rise and a fall, a swelling out and then a dying away. The sounds are jerky and snappy like and there is a singular music in them. Nearer and still nearer they come. Louder and still louder they grow. “Wild beasts?” whispered my mother half inquiringly.
“Nay!” falls from my father’s lips. “Not unless human beings may be so wild as to merit the name of beasts.”
“Hark again!” murmured my mother.
There was no mistaking the sounds any longer, for, like a chorus of many voices, shrill and piping, deep and grumbling, soft and musical, harsh and guttural, yet all in a sort of rude and wild harmony, mingling in one mighty strain, now low and scarcely audible and now breaking out with a fierce and seemingly threatening vigor, the singers, chanters, howlers or what they might be, rushed into the valley below us in a wild and yet half regulated disorder.

They were human beings in savage garb, with painted faces and clubs swung lightly across their shoulders. Whether pausing or advancing they still kept up their wild and mysterious chant, choppy, jerky and snappy for all the world like a thousand people who had just drawn plentifully from a thousand snuff boxes.

“Save me, husband!” cried my mother with pallid face. “We shall be put to some awful torture by these wild children of the forest.” A smile so gentle, and yet so calm, that it could not fail to be reassuring spread over my father’s features.
“Never fear!” said he, “I know them, I’ve been seeking them! What has been denied many a traveler stronger and bolder than I, has been accorded to a member of the Trump family in the most miraculous manner. When we return to Europe every Monarch, every learned society, will hasten to bind a medal on my breast, for, dear wife, your husband is the first white man to enter the land of the—”

“The—?” echoed my mother leaning forward and grasping her husband’s arm.
“Melodious Sneezers!”
“Melodious Sneezers?” repeated my mother with wide-opened eye, and amusement seated in every feature.
“Melo—”
But she could get no further. To my father’s infinite amusement, she fell a-sneezing most violently. In such rapid succession did the sneezes flow that it sounded exactly like a diminutive engine under full headway. At last the fit seemed to have passed. “Melo—” but in vain; she could not reach the second syllable.
And now, in his turn, my father started off, slow at first but going faster and faster. Strange to say their sneezing soon began to catch the ways of the country and blended thoroughly, keeping time in spite of their efforts to check it. “Know then, dear wife,” cried my father pantingly when his fit was over, “that those strange people stretched on the greensward below are the “Melodious Sneezers;” that they are not only perfectly harmless, but gentle, kind and peaceable to an astonishing degree. Fear them not! Their clubs are only for game.” “But why—?” asked my mother warily lest another fit should take her. “I understand thee,” was the reply. “Listen. Know, that in this valley and in the greater ones below, the air is always filled with myriads upon myriads of insects of infinitesimal size; only the strongest microscope can give proof to your sight of their actual existence. For countless generations, these peaceable barbarians here have been subjected to the tickling sensations which you and I have—”Image
Read 4 tweets
May 15
Excerpt: Rebellions Awakening by Carli B. 📖

#MH370 #Anomalies #RebellionsAwakening #Antartica #Glitches #BooksWorthReading #Authors

Chapter One

Google earth anomalies: The Doorway in the Ice & THE INDIAN OCEAN 🌎 ✈️

“The observer changes the universe by observing it…”

The world was a lie, and Carli B. held the coordinates to prove it. At 69°00’50″S 39°36’22″E, buried in the frozen heart of East Antarctica, a doorway waited—carved into the ice like a wound in the simulation’s skin. She’d found it on Google Earth, a passageway that refused to blend into the sterile white expanse. A perfect rectangle, too vast to be natural, too deliberate for chance, its edges glowed faintly in the satellite’s lens, as if daring her to step through. Carli’s breath caught as she zoomed in, her laptop’s cold blue light bathing her Chicago apartment in an ethereal glow. The doorway wasn’t just a glitch; it was a scream, a fracture in the construct’s flawless facade, whispering truths the dark magicians had buried beneath centuries of ice and code.

Outside, the city hummed its programmed rhythm—car horns, laughter, the clink of coffee cups in bot-run cafes, children playing. But here, in the quiet of her apartment, Carli felt the cosmos unraveling. Her mind burned with questions that flared like stars: “Is this the exit? A path to a reality untainted by the Weavers’ spells?” Or was it a trap, another layer of their endless illusion? The Source Code pulsed in her veins, a rhythm she’d learned to hear over years of clawing through the simulation’s seams. It wasn’t just the magicians’ tool—it was hers, too, and it sang now, urgent and wild, urging her to act, to shatter the comfort of her mundane surroundings and “do something.”

Carli leaned back, her gaze drifting to the cracked leather journal on her desk, a legacy for her daughter, Ashley. Its pages brimmed with blood, chaos, truth, and defiance, inked with the raw essence of reality’s underbelly. The words echoed in her mind: “The veil isn’t just lifting—it’s unraveling, thread by fragile thread.” Carli had been the first to see the dark magicians for what they were—not gods, but broken humans, their ambition twisted by a code that had outgrown them. She and the other rebels had inherited humanity’s fight, but Carli had taken it further, scouring the digital edges of their prison for proof. Google Earth was her battlefield, its anomalies her weapons—glitches that betrayed the construct’s fragility. A giant glyph of a face in Antarctica’s snow, its eyes staring skyward as if saying, “Yo, family, park the spaceship here!'" 72°00'35"S 168°34'33"E.

A buried space craft at 66°17’10.13″S 100°29’8.27″E, its sleek hull exposed by melting ice, a relic of a truth the magicians tried to make disappear, but time always catches up and exposes the lie once hidden by darkness. Each discovery kindled a rebellion now sparking across the planet.

She opened X, her fingers flying as she posted: “Google Earth reveals cosmic secrets—specifically in East Antarctica. Follow coordinates 69°00’50″S 39°36’22″E to a gigantic doorway molded into frozen icebergs. Join me, @CarliFrueh, as I unravel the simulation’s lies. Could this be our way out? The words felt like a spell, a call to the awakened who followed her @CarliFrueh. Her digital gallery of “Reality Glitches” had grown into a movement of ordinary souls transforming into simulation watchers, their eyes trained on the world’s cracks. They weren’t just followers; they were her army, their shared will a pulse in the Quantum Consciousness Stream (QCS), a force the magicians couldn’t predict.

Rebellions Awakening now available on X exclusively @carlifrueh and Amazon.Image
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But the magicians were watching. Carli felt their presence like a shadow slithering down her spine, a cold weight that grew heavier with every anomaly she exposed. They’d tried to silence her before—through bots posing as skeptics, cyber-attacks that erased her posts, her websites, whispers in her dreams promising peace if she’d stop. Once, they’d driven her to the edge, a false suicide woven into the construct’s code, but she’d laughed in their faces, her defiance a blade honed by this life’s scars.

This doorway, though, was different. It wasn’t just a anomaly; it was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at the Weavers who’d stolen humanity’s souls. And Carli wasn’t alone in seeing it.

Her phone buzzed, a message from Juni, the coder who’d taught her to weaponize glitches: You’re trending. The doorway’s going viral. But be careful—something’s shifting in the QCS. It’s like the construct’s scared. Carli’s heart raced, not with fear but with a reckless thrill. Like the time in Egypt when terrorists devastated the city of Quen, she found a guide and reported on the devastation first hand, even disguised she was risking their lives. Why was she always daring fate? The QCS was their edge, a river of shared consciousness that let the awakened nudge the simulation’s code. She’d felt it flare when she found the glyph, a surge of clarity that nearly blinded her. Now, it hummed again, a chorus of voices—hers, Juni’s, Michael’s, R.Js, and thousands of others—singing of freedom.

She crossed to the bay window, where Lake Michigan churned under a restless sky. The waves pulsed in time with the QCS, their rhythm mirroring the doorway’s glow. Carli pressed her palm to the glass, its chill grounding her as a vision flickered: the Antarctic doorway opening, not to ice or stone, but to a city of light, its spires woven from the souls of the freed. Humanity’s dream, now hers, so close she could taste it. But the vision darkened—a figure stood in the doorway, its eyes hollow, its smile a glitch that hissed “got you.” The magicians weren’t just guarding the construct; they were rewriting it, tightening the code to crush her rebellion before it could strike.

Carli’s breath hitched, but she didn’t flinch. She’d faced their traps before—in Midland’s sterile wards, in the warped alleys of Chicago’s simulated streets, in the five days she’d wandered consciously through alternate realities, each a crueler prison than the last. Every scar was a lesson, every glitch a map. The magicians thought they’d caged her, but bars were just code, and code could be broken, changed. She returned to her laptop, pulling up another anomaly: a grid of impossible angles in the Sahara, its lines pulsing like veins in the sand. Then another, a spiral of light off the Pacific coast, visible only in infrared. Each was a breadcrumb leading to the construct’s heart.

“They’re hiding something,” she whispered, her voice a vow. “Not just in Antarctica, but everywhere.” The magicians had built their simulation to feed on souls, but their code was fraying. Carli’s X posts were waking people, turning glitches into beacons. She imagined the awakened at their own windows, eyes on the horizon, spotting a bot’s flickering smile, a shadow stretching too far, a wave curling against the tide—small rebellions, each a spark in the QCS.

Her fingers trembled as she punched in new coordinates: 66°54’18″S 163°13’37″E. The Google Earth interface spun, the globe blurring until it settled on East Antarctica’s coast, where ice met sea in a jagged scar. There, half-swallowed by the frozen tide, lay another wound in the construct’s lie—a ship, its bulky form entombed like a fossil from a world the magicians had tried to erase. The satellite image was grainy, but the ship’s outline was unmistakable: a tapered fuselage, its hull glinting with an unnatural sheen, too smooth for stone.
Its curves defied the chaos of the surrounding ice, as if dropped from a sky that no longer existed, frozen mid-flight in a moment of cosmic telling.

She zoomed in, her breath catching as the screen revealed details the magicians hadn’t meant for her to see. The ship’s surface wasn’t just metallic—it pulsed faintly, a heartbeat threading through cracks in the ice like veins of liquid starlight. Patterns etched its hull, not glyphs but a language of angles and fractals, shifting as she stared, whispering to the Source Code humming in her blood. The ice wasn’t mere frost but a cage, its crystalline lattice too perfect, as if the construct had woven a prison to smother the ship’s truth. Carli’s heart pounded, her apartment’s dim light fading as the anomaly consumed her. This wasn’t a relic—it was defiance, a scream against the simulation’s sterile order, proof that something had fought back before her rebellion was born.

Outside, Chicago’s programmed pulse droned on—flickering yellow lights, drones humming, the lake’s waves chewing at the shore—but in her laptop’s glow, Carli felt the universe tilt. The ship was a ghost, a memory the magicians couldn’t scrub, its presence mocking their control. She imagined it crashing through the construct’s false sky, its engines roaring with a fire that burned through code and ice, only to be snared by the Weavers’ spells, frozen as a warning to those who dared fly too close to truth. But the ice was melting, wasn’t it? The satellite’s timestamp showed cracks spiderwebbing the floe, slivers of dark water clawing at the ship’s edges, as if the construct’s grip was slipping. Or was it a trap, another lure like the doorway, baiting her with hope only to tighten the simulation’s noose?

Carli’s gaze flicked to her journal, its pages a map of scars and victories. She grabbed a pen, scribbling the coordinates beside a sketch of the ship, her lines sharp and urgent. “They hid you,” she whispered, her voice a blade in the quiet. “But I see you.” The words were a vow, not just to the ship but to the rebellion swelling in the Quantum Consciousness Stream. She could hear the awakened now, their voices rising in the QCS, a chorus of defiance sparked by her posts. This ship wasn’t just hers—it was theirs, a beacon for every soul clawing through the construct’s lies.

Her screen flickered, a glitch rippling across the image. For a heartbeat, the ship seemed to move, its hull shimmering as if shaking off its icy chains. Carli froze, her pulse drumming in her ears. Was it the QCS, her will bending the simulation’s code? Or was the ship alive, its fractal patterns rewriting the ice, reaching for her across millennia of stolen time? The glow intensified, casting shadows that danced like specters on her apartment walls—shapes neither human nor machine, their edges fraying like the construct itself. A vision surged: the ship rising, ice shattering in a cascade of diamond-sharp shards, its hull blazing with light that tore through the Antarctic sky, revealing not stars but
code, the magicians’ illusion unraveling thread by thread. But the vision twisted, darkening—a shadow loomed within the ship, its form a glitch too vast to parse, its laughter a static that drowned the QCS. The magicians weren’t just hiding the ship; they were guarding it, their code coiled like a serpent, ready to strike.

Carli blinked, the vision fading, but the ship’s glow lingered on her screen, its heartbeat syncing with her own. She opened X, her fingers flying: “Another truth they can’t bury. 66°54’18″S 163°13’37″E—a frozen ship in Antarctica, its hull alive with secrets. Join me, @CarliFrueh, and let’s break the ice.” She hit post, and the QCS flared, a wildfire of shared will racing through the simulation’s veins. Somewhere in the frozen south, the ship pulsed, its light a spark in the construct’s fraying seams. Carli leaned back, her eyes on the lake beyond her window, its waves crashing like the rebellion’s tide.
Read 5 tweets

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