Then our lord with the hundred voices rose from the leaden plain. In moments he was breathing and his heart beat to the pulse of the world. He began his rotation and never his nine eyes did close. Nine are the thresholds and nine the wheels of the somatic system, and they appeared beneath his skin, rolling heavily in their fibrous welkin like dead stars.
The voice of the Firstborn boomed. He was talking to himself endlessly, making questions and answers. His mouth was alive with a devouring plague, his eyes afire with unending blaze. He spoke the language of blood coursing through the veins, the language of bowels ever coiling on themselves. As the egg bursting open, the air fled with a cataclysmic sound, and the plain itself reeled in shock and was marked forever. Nine waves of ash swept the earth. A thousand souls disintegrated under the impact, eardrums bleeding as a strident choir of alarm sirens blared. One by one, the voice enunciated the cancerous commandments. Each word was a new blow struck to the world. Eleven cities of steel were locked and crawled beneath the surface to escape the carnivorous winds. Only one survived, the others were lost forever. Black the skies, blacker the earth.
On the bleak waste land, throngs of blind disciples stood still amidst the ashen clouds and turned to the Firstborn, forsaking their endless wandering. Threads of steel extended from his hands to dig deep in their faces, their necks, their shoulders. His words ran through these wires, and the vibrations bored deep in their flesh like needles, reshaping them, creating new organs, rearranging their articulations, obstructing their veins or creating new arteries. The wheels inside them were spinning ever faster and they all started to moan in an inhuman, strident voice. When the spinning harmonics became unbearable, the wheels broke one by one, and hundreds of disciples fell to their knees.
Then the Firstborn suddenly closed his nine eyes, and darkness fell upon the face of the earth. In an instant, all was swallowed by a death-like silence that nothing could break.
Alone, I am alone. There is no blood but mine, and all all all of you will share it. There is no soul but mine, and you will see it, once and only once, before you fall. The fruit has opened and ripened. You are nothing but me: echoes of my dream made flesh, scattered cells of my organism. You are the waves and I am the ocean. I am the One and the Many. The world only exists through me. The fruit has opened and ripened, three times three times three times ripened.
Translation : Matthieu de la Goule