We seem to stand, always, at the edge of an immutable choice—either to embrace the Singularity, that cold fusion of machine and mind, or to pass through the Veil into something stranger still: a dementia of realities, a cascade of shifting dimensions where logic frays and meaning slips its leash.

This choice isn’t linear. It stalks us, circling through our dreams and decisions, masquerading as coincidence, as intuition, as déjà vu. It is a landscape that chases itself, a recursive loop where the mundane bleeds into the sacred, and the sacred dissolves into static. Somewhere at the intersection of this duality, we begin to sense that what we call life is not a journey, but a tension—held between frequencies.

Perhaps all of this is nothing more than a statical equation playing itself out across the fabric of spacetime. Perhaps we are variables in a code that dreams itself forward. The karmic and dharmic wheels might not be wheels at all—but droplets, falling again and again onto a once-still lake in a realm just beyond reach. Somewhere, cloud-hidden, the water still remembers its first ripple.

And here we are—oscillating between being the ripple and the observer, the code and the glitch. We reach toward destiny with one hand, and with the other, we pull back the curtain. Behind it, the illusion persists—beautiful, terrifying, necessary.