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There came a time when the meadows became few and far between, and nary was a place where the Divine Radiance of a silent vacuum could be felt. Further and further away, into less and less hospitable climes, it became necessary to traverse... simply to bask in that vacuous feel as the Jellyfish could grant and would have intended.

Concrete upon concrete, and brick, and mortar. Pavement, tar, glass and metal. Bulldozers, machines not even meant for tilling the soil. Meant for stripping it, raping it, laying it flat, and then burying it. To be covered with the fruits of primates most fouly devolved. Plants uprooted, and packed and piled upon each other in landfills where natural cycles of decomposition and return would for too long elude them.

Sounds, and MORE confounded sounds, filled the air. Sounds of autos and of construction, and of the endless yammering voices of those primates who so ignobly devolved away from sentiency.

And into this it is true that one could walk, and one could feel the breeze, and one could feel the awe of the very air around them, and one could admire the parks and meadows so few and far between... but one would experience, as well, disruption upon disruption and a need to avert one’s eyes from so many other unsightly sights and close one’s ears to so many unsightly sounds. And even as the Jellyfish swam in Space, and their cousins swam in the Oceans, and the Earth that was Theirs struggled to maintain its peace and coherency...

... even as one’s mind could scream in unrelenting terror at the sights and sounds...

Even as all that, EVEN SO the sounds would come and the concrete would come and the buildings and the cars would come and... inevitably... the Destruction would ever so swiftly or so slowly come upon us.

But some of us could and did step out into this mire and attune ourselves as best we could to what slim sense of the vacuum remained, using anything remotely capable of helping us attune through such a mire, and some of us did clothe our surroundings in plants or assemblages of rubber Jellyfish icons in hopes that we could blot out the stains marring our pristine sound and vision.

Then we would enhance ourselves and our very minds (again) and find ways to further tune the Destruction out, ways to only see what the Jellyfish would have wished for us to see, but EVEN THEN we would still see the roads and the autos and the stumbling sapiens. We would still see the violence and the lack of regard for the beauty around us.

Perhaps in these circumstances all would go mad and forget the appearance of beauty anyway.

But, no, some continued to seek it. Some continued to revere it. Some persisted in the struggle to preserve what remained of our sacred Tropical Preserve.

Though it seemed futile. Though it seemed all would be gone, all would be bulldozed and built over... and even on the highest mountain top or the most remote grassland there would be nothing but foul humans and their foul sounds and structures, and nowhere could there be peace and beauty anymore...

... nowhere beyond the headache-spawning, eye-burning, stenches and the nerve-destroying cacophanies...

And with such thoughts in mind it would undoubtedly be easy to feel that the time had come, that the Fiery Rain should be upon us, that such treacherous heathens should be purged of this world.

But it was not time as of yet, not yet, because some still tried. Some still sought those places of peace and enhanced their minds and struggled to build their miniature preserves amidst mountains of heat-reflecting and wind-tunneling concrete and glass. Some, despite everything, could indeed still see beyond the mind-damning facades of the billboards, the golden arches, and the spires.

If, for a time, some continued to feel the call of the Jellies and struggle amidst the Destruction, then it would not yet be the time. For there remained hope, though there was little hope and the mountains of concrete and glass and the rivers of tar and the stinking autos and raucous primitive human sounds abounded. Still there remained the smallest amounts of hope.

St. Sailing, Operative J
The Blasted One/Highest Radiate Initiate
Our Blasted Lady of the Jellyfish

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