Do you remember living in trees? Inside trees where time freezes. There are things so small they are conveyed in the fluum of tree roots and once this was me. Now this small thing is within a vessel that serves it to a tee. The world grew tawdry and gross around this liquid crystal and metalized it. Light impresses itself within it and stands still. It was once in a slipstream on a hardwire landscape and now it is a mirage. The soul is above the threshold of the matter universe. The world grew up around it and it remained and abides with an uplink through the ether to the super-dimensional universe.
It is a splinter in our brains that warps the matrix that funnels the mercury mirrors that fill our skulls, cloaked and buried under eternally gawking molecules of macro-matter. The reason the sky is a void of darkness and the reason we are assailed by a rain of gravity is our own souls; our soul's captivity. This is the potential that equals all the lightening that ever struck; the thing that surpasses the speed of light-- thought. An anvil shrunken into minutia and passed over by the names and faces of our contrived world. Jesus said all of heaven is the size of a mustard seed. No more no less. Our souls still fit in this mustard seed, and if they were to fill it seamlessly at once, the fiction of the Earth would be cast asunder. The magnetic repulse that constricts the quicksilver trace within us can be reversed. The full force of the torture of the flesh, the wet net of gravity that strikes us down at every movement is the depressing force of imprisonment that is needed to contain the potential of the soul in slipstream.
Isolated, each console is outmatched at every turn by the prison of the mind and for the mind. The ability to travel through time, the ability to move faster than light and also the ability to defy gravity can be accessed with the same tool of dissolution of the matrix. Sound. The trees that stand among us have endured years in crystalline stoicism. The rings of wood are grooves on a record that plays in the sea of time. The trees always listen; the trees always vibrate. The endure the cacophony of the catapulted ignorance that our cities have wrought. The veins of the branches, of the vines are the touchstone to the capillary action of the ether, which if allowed to reclaim the space of the earth would ignite the shunt into the spacious pixels of the next dimension. The arc. The completed arc that can shuttle every electron back into focus.
The Omegatron. This is the sound which unleashes the soul. The all- pervasive call of the sound that reaches into the past, into the center of the tree trunks that are the glaciers of our ice age. The arrangement of body and soul and the world of mass and gravity that exist now are a dispensation for the power that would be the face of the Universe. Anti-matter species would eat us like clams in silence. But destiny ensures that the Omegatron will one day sound.