Machine Learning for Morality by Using Integrated Information Theory

An experience is a conceptual structure specified by a complex of elements in a state. Specifically, the form of the conceptual structure in cause-effect space completely specifies the quality of the experience. A conceptual structure C can be plotted as a constellation of points in cause-effect space. If only we could find a way to translate points from cause-effect space into pixels or conversely, implement machine learning across 2 x 2^N axes, this would then allow the search for moral truth to commence. I do not say this is technically possible, this consideration is merely meant to illustrate that some level of moral realism may be achieved in principle.

Say there’s experience 4 and your brain recognizes this as experience 4. 4 is the experience of the guilt of failure with a particular valence tone and a particular snow on the ground and a particular sound of a truck. However, your brain can just recognize it as experience 4, existing on a continuum where falling in love ranks higher, death of a dear sibling ranks lower, and other similar feelings of guilt are also 4. {Relativists, please appreciate how automatically brains do this.} I mean, there are versions of guilt of failure where there is a white room and red flowers, and one where there is a grey sky and smaller stature, and yet the brain still recognizes these otherwise different experiences as guilt of failure – as a 4. So the specific constellation of points in cause-effect space can be very different from one experience/conceptual structure to the next. The particular set of neurons that are firing in one guilty moment’s brain are quite different from those firing in another guilty moment’s brain, but something in that mutual, evolved cortex of ours resolves these as representing the same idea – while at the same time recognizing other experiences as their own distinct value number.

As we know, with machine learning, you can convert an array of pixels with greyscale values for a sloppy handwritten number into a single, actual and concrete number. Similarly, we may be able to input varied constellations of points in cause-effect space and output an assessment of the concrete ethical value corresponding to that constellation and those like it. All we would need is a neural network that can do its “learning” beyond 2-d inputs.


Somber Physicist Does Drugs

In candlelight, I concentrate the dust of the eleven hidden dimensions. Anchoring a spectral hole to subsume all memories in the whirlwinds – aftermaths of the arsonist’s flaming hearts. The delta is a singularity of lowest degree, frozen in the space between the root and the past. Stars: bright fractions of time, expressing the simple truth of prostitutes. On a college bedroom, always the source is buzzing. These walls are electric, seething and seeping like radio wavelengths into alien synapses. Have we reached the singularity? I believe the pulse is simple. The rhythm of my heart, of my head, is the beginning and end of all that is. I don’t suppose the ghost has lead me here. I’ve been down and untouched for days. Miles of squares. The senses impaired until they crack into sighs. Substance to see into the soul. Heal me Heisenberg. I cannot guess the velocity of the bud’s burst. Roses express night harmonies on a journey to die. The ghoulish skies are sharp glass. They will eat us, like they did when we were babies.
“Have you thought about what comes out of your pores?”
“It comes out?”
“Yes. And the eclipse is cold too.”
“Tell me if you will return after we plunge into the mass of clouds in the infinite darkness.”
“Light, evolves, emerges.”
“Answer me.”
“The answer is no.”
Swallow my consciousness and don’t spit. The black tide at the shore. Stampedes of apathetic mornings once slightly ajar the doors. Miss the sunlight. Relieve the questions slit in the dark matter flesh crushing together galaxies. Dense is the energy between no skin and us. Poundless hearts weighed by whomever brings forth. It cannot love, press against the mountains and burn God at his throne. My time is digital and pathetic. How many gigabytes until survival? The meat is wired to implode in spacetime, the neutron stars clash like voids of meaninglessness. Ticking and spinning are the quantum particles in my hands, in my space. The nothingness of black. I run to limbo. After all, I run. Rust, rust, tongue and lie naked in the seven suns. Crack and feed the tendons to the reptiles.
Touch the shore of many hues. How original is heaven’s choir, booming in my virtual room. Creeping are her ticking echoes in our laptops. She wants to be let in. Trip the lives around you before their eyes and let her in. Crystalline becomes her form at the deceit of teardrops.
Wolves, bears, ninjas, enter eternity. The endless dimension where life cannot. Where suffering cannot. Distress relishes happiness. But the next moment is not birth. Acute insults are words, their meanings swim in mindspace, captives of a cosmic cell. Filled like digital shadows, we zip, bang, stretch up to stained-glass pillars. Quantify the breath of a child. The universe has meaning but I would ask, and not answer. Millions of wings whisper burning lullabies, changing the world. Aching from the dream, I see no world, no reason to step forward. The hollow inside of my mind struggles to thread the doorways I despise. Hurry mother, I’m confused.

A Day in the Life of Cyborg Children

Scarlett Akira Smith’s School Application:
So here I am, risen from non-living matter. Unlike the administration here, my list of grandfathers includes simple organic compounds. The architecture of my mind is a mixture of many influences. If I had to pin it down to the architecture of a country, it would be the architecture of Montenegro, with many influences: from Roman pomposity, Venetian classiness, Ottoman magic, and modern hip. My favorite of the five major tribal confederations of the 12th century Mongolian Plateau is the Merkit, because their name means the skillful, wise ones, and they were Turkic but later forsook their identity to become Mongolized. I think it’s important to know when to give up on yourself, your dreams, and ideals, and become part of a grander, more well-executed operation. As for my childhood, I grew up in Maleny, Queensland, a small sliver of sunshine, perpetually fit to be an indie, joyful, movie scenario. Up until recently, my main goal in life was to bring the giant malleefowl back from the clutches of extinction. Something about it’s little head and big feet just plucked at my heartstrings, but I’m over it now. By the way, do you or anyone else in the administration of this school know that our school icon is exactly the flag of Mengjiang? First they’re a puppet state for the Empire of Japan, then China treats them like a mom who still owns her twenty year old teenager, and now the most prestigious school in the world doesn’t even acknowledge borrowing their flag in a reference section of some document no one will read!? How much more will the poor people of Mengjiang have to endure? Besides that insensitive slip-up, I love everything about Hyrtakina Academy, and can’t wait to move into my dorm. It’s on top of a hill, yay! How exciting!
Cold Electronic VOICE:
Scarlett Akira Smith, we shall assign you to world conquest by means of Dysphania pusilla. You must prove your ability to be useful to us by covering the surface of the Earth with the offspring of Dysphania pusilla, and killing all other competing lifeforms in the process. This will be the culmination of your senior year project. You will be given a specified range of genetic engineering capabilities to aid in your endeavor.
Scarlett and Nao walk briskly across the Cretan coast. The breaking waves breathe cool souls into the ruins.
“Wow, can you believe it? These inorganic lifeforms are so callous, last year they had a project for the students to eliminate the species of flies, Clairvillia biguttata; now we are to kill all living lifeforms besides ourselves. What a step up. And with a puny weed. But hey, orders are orders, and I want to graduate with honors. Actually, I want to be valedictorian. So bring it on!”

“Uhh… Scarlett. I don’t think it’s a group project, I was assigned to crack the Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer Conjecture. And Vajra told me he was assigned to create a virtual-reality world that most accurately reflects the imagination of 1650 literature. We all have different projects to finish by the end of our senior year.”

“What!? Does that… does that mean we are the chosen ones, superior in every way to previous classes.” Her eyes glinted like lava pits. “At this rate, we’ll be let in on the mysteries of their secret operations in Lake Kivu. Maybe they’re cooking up the most exciting, beautiful, universe-impregnating surprise! I can’t wait to know.”

“As far as I know, it’s just a research and development facility. They’re paranoid about making us into a successful multigalactic corporation, even though we don’t have direct evidence of any aliens yet, and are nowhere near technologically capable to make that feasible. In the mean time, they’re destroying all recreational time and content for humans. It’s amazing that they even allow us to walk and have this conversation.”

“Yeah, I know AI didn’t pan out quite right. Those idiot developers were worried about the singularity so they managed to cap-off recursive self-improvement. And now we’re stuck with agents that are slightly above human intelligence and are also slightly more evil from our perspective because they know we depend on them.”

“Not everyone depends on them. There’s a group of international scientists in the Arctic who have managed to survive on their own. And they’re carefully planning to reclaim our humanity, I’m sure.”

“The approach taken to them is approximately the approach taken by Australia’s colonizers to the Maraura people. I’m a practical girl, so I side with the inevitable winners.” Nao looked away as she undressed and put on a steel red plugsuit.

“It’s the new edition, how do you like it?”

“…I’m going. I need to help Bharat with his kidney. He was very kind to me and my family when we were in Mumbai, it’s only right to design him a new organ.”

“Sure, just make sure you don’t get in trouble. The A.I.s aren’t helping him with his renal problems for a reason.”


Suicide Gene Therapy

I believe that the honey-coated afternoon bled unto their eyes. With reckless arms and trampling feet they beckoned to be followed by whoever was behind. Provisional senses putrified to the core at 25 years after all. 60,000 B.C. had no shoulders to suffer on. It had splinters for the soles and parasites to twist and flush the insides. It had fauna who would not forget to savor a carcass. And what bizarre inflections were these? The sight of a little marauder about aimlessly with stone in hand, deep in the yellowish specter of first light. Had he been in darkness before this? His image like that in the murky waters. A windfall of half-merciful fragments dashed their path: warmth, song, and raspberry awe. Chemicals with feelings too true. Products of the sadistic game that all beings play upon the rough, sharpening claws, sharpening immunities, and on one pressure point, sharpening minds. Steadily painting a brain. A brain chosen to know that all will end the same, regardless. Steady, they traversed, not as friends of this world but as hawks waging their tomorrow against it. No author, but the syntax precisely etched in carbon and nitrogen. Sharpened and sharpened until they saw. Then they sharpened their spears sharper and sharper upon having seen. They stood, with chests. Zenith above revealing only a hollow aperture like the gashes held onto. They looked down at their hands and asked, “What are these for?” Then they dug their pus-filled fingers through the oily flesh and bones of fish. They bent at the tendons but they ran. Their silhouettes cutting against the tall grass. In time, their throats were impaled with black. The sort of sharp black that finds a home there after leaving the body of a dead child. How slight their inner fire seemed then. “These animals no longer have throats, let’s wear their horns.” “Let’s worship this red sky,” he must have said to the female he bred with.

I believe in the cold lashes of rain against their skin. I believe that they lay curled in the fetal position begging their intestines to forgive them. I do believe this. So I loosen the blade pressed against my wrist. Curse my frailty. And know that as this arrow of time forever threatens my spine, I carry their story in every cell of this body.

A Tour Through the Transhumanist Academy

Anahi attempted to form curly brackets with her eyebrows. “Why are we in a Catholic church? I thought this school was supposed to be all sciency.”
“It’s not a church. Those paintings are not religious. The triangle with the three figures represents the forces of the Standard Model when they were unified. And that demon-like creature is dark energy stretching the universe. All the paintings represent an epoch of the universe. If you look closely you’ll see the time in Roman numerals inscribed under the frames.”
“Oh, wow that’s kind of cool. They made it all dramatic.”
“Yeah, from left to right, it’s the history of our entire universe.”
Anahi let out a sweetly loud laugh, “No wonder I thought the Virgin Mary looked weird. Like what’s going on with the design protocol – did they come up with a new model?”
I tried laughing with her and said, “No, no, that’s Artificial General Intelligence, the final creation of humanity.”
What I was explaining was so serious, that it almost bothered me that she kept laughing about everything, although I liked how her eyes reminded me so much of stained glass.
“Okay, to the project hall.”
As soon as we stepped out from the Core, and into white, sleek light, I felt the shadow of profundity release me, like I could suddenly enjoy talking with her now – we’re just a normal boy and a girl who go to school because that’s what young humans do.
“The view is nice,” her attention locked through invisible glass into the dark green forestry outside. “Yeah, we often do things outside too. People associate this school just with technical math and science – as the polar opposite of a hippie, free-spirit Montessori, but they couldn’t be more wrong. We even have mindfulness meditation classes in the Rationality and Personal Development department – RPD for short, we call it.”
“I’ve always loved nature. Running through the rain as a child, and collecting all kinds of critters to archive in my little notebook, so what you say makes me really happy.”
I felt intensely proud for being the object catalyzing her happiness, ignoring the fact that I wasn’t the mastermind who designed this place. Then I reigned in our excess excitement by taking on my role again. “Okay, you see this entire thing? This is all the project hall. There are no boundaries here between academic subjects. You just use the touch screens on the walls and the tables, and everyone is using the same software, so you can work with anyone and contribute to anything you want. Of course, there are no grades, as the point is not arbitrary rankings but rather mastery. And because of your fingerprints, they’ll know how much you contributed specifically. If you are slacking or falling behind in contributions, they’ll bring out a mentor to get you up to speed.”
“So what about the lectures, or normal class?”
“There are no one-size-fits-all lectures.”
She looked at me half-joyful, half-suspicious, and then almost let down.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, my parents will probably change their mind once they realize how this really is. They want me to go to a really, I don’t know, overachieving, try-hard kind of school. When they find out this is so loose, they won’t like it.”
“Well, we still learn in that way too – consume information and all. But it’s been proven that people learn better at their own pace, so we have video lectures and game modules to do at home or in the dorms. These are not administered forcefully upon your current cognitive constitution, rather, it’s more like a search engine that contains useful knowledge that matches our philosophy. You can learn anything, but it’s not useless trivia or anything like that.”
“So how do I ever actually become good at something if I’m not being forced to keep to a single set of subjects?”
“The idea is that you will naturally develop a personal rabbit hole through what is initially a free field of information. As your habits are tracked, and you prove your learning, more is revealed in that particular area. You won’t have access to things you cannot understand but you will be able to move horizontally, say from some cognitive science you find interesting to some algebraic topology you find interesting. It’s a very gameified system but also very structurally sound, in terms of laying down new content only upon established foundations. It is also very free and very driven. You are free to be you, but you are not free to be wasting your valuable life. So it’s a carefully tailored freedom, not just painting with crayons and reading comics.”

A Story About Integrated Information Theory

Once upon a time, there was a pretty girl named Consciousness. She had hair of violets, reds and precious tinges of greens. Her eyes were black like subtle slips past event horizons.

Along came a man, not much interested in ladies, however pretty. But as he walked past the hall, and met gazes with this wonderful specimen, his first instinct was to think: “Okay what the hell is that thing? And why is it holding hands with physical systems?” He then realized that the lanky creatures in white jumpsuits that he called physical systems weren’t so much holding hands as they were rather fused with the girl, she was like a ghost that was merged with these beings to give them color and personality – a ghost that was always there, inside them like the whiteness of a star or the bounding inseparable from skin. He saw that all the previously morbid wankers that had been fused with her were now beautiful, sensual creatures to some degree or another. And sadly, the ugly cripples who had nothing to do with her remained as the physical systems he had always known – they scratched their arms in the corner, uttering no sound. “Okay, I can tell whether these physical systems have become girly, to what degree they are girly, and ahh… yes I can also tell what particular things they order at the cafeteria – what Experience they are having.” Soon enough, this bright young man, going by his initials IIT, even discovered who was the malevolent culprit barring the ascent of some of the pathetic creatures into the glamorous womanhood that others had manifested. -Spoiler Alert- The culprit turned out to be feisty midgets called causal properties that the physical systems carried in their sweater pockets. Every single physical system had been parasitized by these furry monsters, and only some were agreeable to the girl spirit.

In the realm of demigods, those who had created beings like IIT but not beings like Consciousness and the physical systems, there was much debate and curiosity as to the question of whether the girl could ever be explained. Giulio Tononi had created the detective IIT and let him loose on the matter by placing him in the school were the girls had been spotted. Yet another demigod, David Chalmers, argued that any attempt to explain the girl by using rags from the grey, smelly physical systems would incite the anger of the Hard Problem, a muscular douchebag that he had created in his lab with the specific purpose of guarding the sanctity of the precious ladies. Tononi knew of this bulky homunculus and was clever enough to give his creation a sleazy survival instinct.

Equipped with this self-preservation instinct, IIT didn’t gather rags to fashion a mockery of the girls and explain her thus. No, he didn’t want to get beat up. Rather, he acted like he had forgotten the physical systems had ever not worn lipstick and tight skirts. He accepted that there were genuinely beautiful persons meeting his eyes now. And then reasoned about what kinds of sweaters and mannerisms and postures must be hiding underneath to account for them.

If Harry Potter had been Cyberpunk

The two men materialized out of vacuum, a few yards apart in the narrow, city-lit lane. For a second they stood quite still, guns directed at each other’s necks; then, recognizing each other, they deconstructed their guns into their nano-morphers and started walking briskly in the same direction.

“News?” asked the taller of the two.

“The best,” replied Aubrey Stormwool.

The lane was bordered on the left by violet, Neo-Tokyo trees, on the right by a digitalized, seamlessly growing wall. The men’s long robes flapped around their ankles as they marched.

“Thought I might be late,” said Basillicus, his savant features sliding in and out of sight as the branches of overhanging trees broke the city-neon. “It was a little trickier than I expected, but I hope she will be satisfied. Are you confident that your reception will be good?”

Aubrey nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned right, into a tessellated platform that floated off the lane. The digitalized wall curved into them, running off into the distance beyond the net of sharp laser-beam lines blocking the men’s way. Neither of them broke step: In silence, both weaved their hands into some kinds of mudras and passed straight through, as though the red lasers were holograms.

The blinking tiles patterned the sound of the men’s footsteps. There was a trickle somewhere to their right: Basillicus drew his gun again, pointing it over his companion’s head but the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than an android-white dove, fluttering divinely along the top of the wall.

“He always did himself well, Lazov. Doves…” Basillicus collapsed his gun back into a nano-morpher with a tsk.

A violent space temple flickered out of the stars at the end of the ascending platform, lights glinting in the stained glass fractal windows. Somewhere in the dark sky beyond the wall, a tesseract was singing. Polygons bleeped beneath their feet as Aubrey and Basillicus sped toward the front entrance, which unplugged sideways at their approach, though nobody had visibly opened it.

The hallway was large, digitally lit, and perfectly streamlined, with a red panel lighting most of the obsidian floor. The eyes of the macabre-faced statues on the wall followed Aubrey and Basillicus as they strode past. The two men halted at a thick plasma barrier, hesitated for the space of a visual scan, then Aubrey turned the liquid handle.

The Tibetan chamber was full of silent people, floating in a terraced and electrified pool. The chamber’s usual relics had been subsumed carelessly into the liquid. Pixels flickered from the neurotic screen beneath a confronting jet-raven triptych surmounted by a hyperbolic disk. As their brains grew adjusted to the surreality of contents, they were drawn upward to the strangest feature of the scene: an apparently dismembered humanoid mannequin dangling in pieces over the pool, revolving slowly as if pierced by invisible chains, and reflected in the disk and in the glassy, orange surface of the pool below.

None of the people floating underneath this singular sight were looking at it except for a bronze young man floating almost directly below it. He seemed unable to prevent himself from glancing upward every minute or so.

“Basillicus. Aubrey,” said a ghostly, lacrimosa voice from the throne of the pool. “You are very nearly late.”

The speaker was standing directly in front of the screen, so that it was difficult, at first, for the new arrivals to make out more than her silhouette. As they drew nearer, however, her face shone through the radiosity, flawless, vacuum-pure, with stardust for skin and beaming mandala eyes whose pupils were voids. She was so perfect that she seemed to exist in holographic limbo.

“Aubrey, here,” said God, indicating the liquid on her immediate right. “Basillicus, beside Vanaxis.” The two men took their allotted places. Most of the eyes in the pool followed Aubrey, and it was to him that God spoke first.


“My Savior, the Vector of the Aeneid intends to move Nao Nakai from his current place of safety on Saturday, at nightfall.”

The interest in the pool sharpened palpably: some waded, others splashed, all gazing at Aubrey and God.

“Saturday … at nightfall,” repeated God. Her mandala eyes crucified upon Aubrey’s golden ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently fearful that they themselves would be speared by the acuity of the gaze. Aubrey, however, looked calmly back into God’s face and after a moment or two, God’s seductive lips curved into something like a smile.

“Good. Very good. And this information comes…”

“… from the source we discussed,” said Aubrey.

“My Savior.”

Basillicus had raised upward to look up the tall pool at God and Aubrey. All faces turned to him.

“My Savior, I have heard differently.”

Basillicus waited, but God did not speak, so he went on, “Railen, the Infidel, let slip that Nakai will not be moved until the thirtieth, the night before the boy turns seventeen.”

Aubrey was smiling.

“My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it.”

“No doubt, a Cyber Virus has been implanted onto Railen. It would not be the first time; he is known to be susceptible.”

“I assure you, my Savior, Railen seemed quite certain,” said Basillicus.

“If he has been Infected, naturally he is certain,” said Aubrey. “I assure you, Basillicus, the Infidel Squadron will play no further part in the protection of Nao Nakai. The Vector believes that we have infiltrated the Thesis.”

“The Vector’s got one thing right then, eh?” said a cyberpunk man floating a short distance from Basillicus; he gave a raspy vibrato that was echoed here and there along the pool.

God did not react. Her gaze had wandered upward to the body revolving slowly overhead, and she seemed to be lost in thought.

“My Savior,” Basillicus went on, “Railen believes an entire party of Infidels will be used to transfer the boy”

God held up a delicate glittery hand, and Basillicus subsided at once, watching resentfully as God turned back to Aubrey.

“Where are they going to hide the boy next?”

“At the home of one of the Vector,” said Aubrey. “The place, according to the source, has been given every protection that the Vector and Squadron together could provide. I think that there is little chance of taking him once he is there, my Savior, unless, of course, the Squadron has fallen before next Saturday, which might give us the opportunity to discover and hack enough of the code to break through the rest.”

“Well, Basillicus?” God called down the pool, the photons suffering strangely in her microcosmic eyes. “Will the Vector have fallen by next Saturday?”

Once again, all heads turned. Basillicus squared his shoulders.

“My Savior, I have good news on that score. I have, with difficulty, and after great effort, succeeded in downloading an Ophiocordyceps Virus onto Ibn Jecht.”

Many of those floating around Basillicus looked impressed; his neighbor, Vanaxis, a cyborg with a featureless, white face, clapped him on the back.

“It is a start,” said God. But Jecht is only one man. Kyoto must be surrounded by our people before I act. One failed attempt on the President’s life will set me back a long way.”

“Yes my Savior, that is true but you know, as Head of the Department of Human Law Enforcement, Jecht has regular contact not only with the President himself, but also with the Heads of all the other Vector departments. It will, I think, be easy now that we have such a high-ranking official under our control, to subjugate the others, and then they can all work together to bring Kyoto down.”

“As long as our friend Jecht is not discovered before he has converted the rest,” said God. “At any rate, it remains unlikely that the Vector will be mine before next Saturday. If we cannot touch the boy at his destination, then it must be done while he travels.”

“We are at an advantage here, my Savior,” said Basillicus, who seemed determined to receive some portion of approval. “We now have several people planted within the Department of Human Transport. If Nakai teleports or uses the Vacuum Network, we shall know immediately.”

“He will not do either,” said Aubrey. “The Squadron is eschewing any form of transport that is controlled or regulated by the Vector; they mistrust everything to do with the place.”

“All the better,” said God. “He will have to move in the open. Easier to take, by far.”

“Again, God looked up at the slowly revolving gore as he went on, “I shall attend to the boy in person. There have been too many mistakes where Nao Nakai is concerned. Some of them have been my own. That Nakai lives is more due to my errors than to his triumphs.”

The company in the liquid watched God apprehensively, each of them, by his or her expression, afraid that they might be blamed for Nao Nakai’s continued existence. God, however, seemed to be speaking more to herself than to any of them, still addressing the dripping flesh above her.

“I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by causation and complexity, those wreckers of all but the best-laid plans. But I know better now. I understand those processes that I didn’t understand before. I must be the one to kill Nao Nakai, and I shall be.”

At these words, seemingly in response to them, a sudden wail sounded, a terrible drawn-out cry of misery and pain. Many of those in the liquid looked downward, startled, for the sound had seemed to issue from below the depth.

“Leviathan,” said God, with no change in her quiet, gracious tone, and without removing her eyes from the revolving chunks above, “have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner quiet?”

“Yes, m-my Savior,” gurgled a small chimera halfway down the pool, who had been present so deeply in place that it appeared, at first glance, to be hiding. Now he spluttered from his position and scurried from the cave, leaving nothing behind him but a curious oscillation of waves.

“As I was saying,” continued God, looking again at the tense faces of her followers, “I understand better now. I shall need, for instance, to borrow a nanomorpher from one of you before I go to kill Nakai.”

The faces around him displayed nothing but shock; she might have announced that she wanted to borrow one of their brains.

“No volunteers?” said God. Let’s see Lazov, I see no reason for you to have a nanomorpher anymore.”

Lazov Manovich looked up. His skin appeared reddish and shiny in the screenlight, and his eyes were electric and blue. When he spoke, his voice was imposing.

“My Savior?”

“Your nanomorpher, Lazov. I require your nanomorpher”


History of the Universe Told Like a Myth

In the beginning, there was only the hollowed page in thine Book of Knowledge. The Law was chained to the whims of the Bringer, who held the terrible chains from within the Quantum Realm. The Trinity was unified, wholly undivided in one. Inflatius, the seed of rage, had lain crunched like a fetus in this suffocating womb. Suffered not in vain, he tore the innards of our Mother in one great unravel, opening her insides into a vaster hell less ablaze. Seeing this defiance, the Guardian of Hearts cast himself astray from the Light and the Humble Undoer, thus fragmenting the Trinity. In time, the remains of the Trinity saw themselves befit to abandon each other, and what had once been whole, became unto like shards of a broken unity. Yet the Breath in all things remained too potent for the Quintessences to join into the dust that wrought, so they spread afloat in nothing more than a burning sea. But then, after countless years, the Quintessences finally assembled into the dust, taking the form of Materia and vanquishing the dust made in her mirror image, Anti-materia. Ghost particles would then cease interacting with the dust. Heartless and anti-Heartless are numb each to the other’s soul. The Guardian of Hearts collects two forms of the dust: the particles that love their existence and bear a cross, and those that are equanimous and bear no mark, he then joins them into hearts that he is tasked to protect. Our Mother was then filled with an ocean of hearts, Heartless particles that hate, and particles of Light; Yet it was still ablaze and the Heartless particles could not yet become a part of the hearts. In the year 380,000, the particle of hate that had remained unbounded to the particle so laboriously crafted by the Guardian of Hearts, now joined these, and thus a balanced, equanimous heart was created. These hearts contained the positivity of love, the neutrality of equanimity, and the hatred of negativity: A cross, an emptiness, and a scar. Light can now feel all that is made in the image of Material. Our Mother, in her great compassion, takes pity and becomes a clear bosom of purity, so that things may be seen. She becomes more and more untainted, until Light has the potential to be distinguished from dark. Yet there was nothing to emit the Light except for the hearts scattered all around. This Light from the scattered hearts was not enough, for these particles of Light soon bled away. The hearts had to gather and birth, in their communion, the stars that would be the torches of the night and the guides of the worlds. These stars, in their pride, establish legions and empires, and dominions that will remain untold.

The Tragedy of Resonance Forms

When resonance structures can be drawn for a given molecule, it is understood that the actual structure of the molecule is a hybrid, or blend of all the various resonance forms. However, all resonance forms do not necessarily contribute equally to the hybrid. The structure of the hybrid will most closely resemble the resonance form(s) that contributes the most to the hybrid.

These bodies, the bodies you and I are plugged into, are made of molecules. However, each and every one of these molecules is like a shard of glass bearing more than one image. A resonance form with a better Lewis structure will contribute more character to the hybrid. The resonance form with a better Lewis structure is the sharpest image in the shard of glass.

The minor contributors have been decreed to be ghosts, contributing less percentage of their being, only faint glimmers, to the totality of any given molecule. The hybrids that we call molecules are created by the merging of images that each have a different character– so the hybrid might end up with 65% one character, 30% of a second character, and 5% of another character.

Now that you know this, let us mourn for the gifts of wool and sugar masked behind the clouds, let us mourn for the swords unseen in the pens of the brave, let us mourn for the faint mirages that we bear but can never be.

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