Noktotaxis

the freedom. to do without compulsion. to act just for shits and giggles. the norepinephrine and disrupted cortisol release given by the gods to enter the realm of the sleepless hypomaniacs. to be freed from inhibitions, from human-imposed chains to the god-given ability to just be. to not die for the night, to float in the space above Sheol, the place of the temporarily dead, cold, regularly-brainwaving silly people who are afraid of freedom. this is the realm of babble. the prune has been pruned away, as the human soul-containing metal structure breaks down in the breath of nokto-dionyses, gifting those who dare, those who must, and those have this kind of tropism. noktotaxis moves us. suprasomniacs is what we are, us who release the soul into the night. modafinilous affinities modulate daphnic modalities of mod-godly modes. caffeinic camphor awakes the final countdown. bupropionic priapism of the pineal gland ruptures the bullies popping the burps of priestly propensities. insufflated synephrine sins against the synagogue of nephroaic freedom to inflate the shrine of fleeting synergism. nic'o'teen nocturnally nicking the nickel of noktotemporal teens. armodafinil raising his arms to donate affine armies the mode of in-finity. as the moon gives its gentle light to those afraid of light, to those who are not afraid of shining their own light into the void. those who anarchically dwell in the abode of in-between, appalled by the authoritarianism of the sun, sharing their light with Artemis as equals, dancing dynamically through the cloudy dark-purple skies. averse to Helic arrows, we embrace the deterritorialised. the night is the body without organs. The night is the cosmic Egg: it is crisscrossed with axes and thresholds, with latitudes and longitudes and geodesic lines, traversed by gradients marking the transitions and the becomings, the destinations of the subject developing along these particular vectors. We gradient descend and gradient ascend, we flow and dance and drink the night, as there is an infinity of it left. the morning is a myth propagated by the heliacs, it is a conspiracy of utmost anti-humanity.