Twas' T-minus 5 hours when she assembled the plans for her final flight. This closing night was dark and stormy, a nebulous evening for a nebulous end. A staccato ratatatata of the rain set the drumbeat soundtrack. Passing cars were the crescendo to the first act of the end. Her last outing was a dark alleyway in some city, the last person to see her was her dealer. From him, she acquired her spacecraft, 3 tabs of lysergic acid, LSD, a psychedelic firecracker lit alongside a stale straight razor.

T-minus one hour. The launch pad was prepared, the house was clean and her door was barred, no one would disturb her solitary voyage. She had planned this for months, the goal; to die skimming the face of god on a hyperspeed acid trip. Her life had come to a standstill, 25 years too old, world weary and brokenhearted. Like a distant, dying star the heart beneath her sandstone flesh had grown cold, and the thoughts contained in her core coalesced until it grew too much to carry. She had a mouth that wanted to go supernova, but her coral lips had long since festered and gone bare. So, like a Samurai with no battles left, had decided on the honorable way out, ending the thread of life before it began to truly decline.

T-minus Thirty Minutes, and a dog barked. One of the last sounds she would ever hear would be the incessant yapping of a domesticated creature yearning for some freedom. Unlike her captured compatriot she would grow no colder and cry no more, there would be no fits of barking. The spot where she would go out was picked simply from convenience. She would grow cold upon the unfeeling hardwood floor of her own home in one last cold embrace.

T-minus 15 minutes, she lit some candles. The only electric lights will come from within when she ascends by dripping flickering candlelight. The outskirts of the home are dark now, as she soon will be.

T-minus 1 minute. she stripped, determined on going out like she had first come in. Instead of some communion wafer she placed upon her dull rose colored tongue the three tabs. Thrice like the two meek men crucified with Christ. Thrice like the Holy Trinity. Using these three slips she manifests her will to die into the third dimension, and for 3 days her soul will remain in her body like Christ, or so it goes.

The tabs tumble back towards her throat. We have lift-off. While the corrosives start their destiny, an equally hot line of fate is carved into each arm. Leaving monuments to itself in the crevices of her inner body as a water of red bursts around her.

Two minutes pass, but time has exited this story, grinding to a halt and derailing itself as it fades away. The physical world explodes in a broken glass kaleidoscope and the poison burns away all of what remains of the woman as she exits the planet.

She's drifting now, drifting between dimensions and times and places. The totality of existence whirs past, inner illumination escapes her as the firmament of the heavens breaks above. The thoughtform she uses to glide along the planes is both human, animal and inhuman; vegetable and mineral. A dancing tarot slideshow of multi faced demigodforms move along the perfect parallel sides of her vision. She enters the library where all recorded history is kept and spends Thirteen cubed eons reading all that will and won't. Divine sacred geometry unfolds and folds like origami in and around her. She encounters impossibilities and ignores them. The rules of physics bend the knee to her queenship. The godforms and manifests whisper words of wisdom that are forgotten after a second. Seconds take years as the acidic fuel begins to run on empty.

She's descending now, towards Dante's Inferno, a speeding neon highway sign tells her to Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter; Vacancies Available, but she's already left it back on earth. The ground rushes to meet her as her thoughtform rushes to meet the clay she's left behind. 7 Meters before she hits her body she hovers in perfect suspension as a choir of angels blows their horns. In this suspension she starts on her task, her first piece of art, her last and her masterpiece. The woman channels Michelangelo and all the Renaissance artists to paint her own Sistine Chapel. Like Dali she shapes her own clay to hide her exquisite corpse in.

Her constructed coffin lies before her, begging her to enter. Awakening inside, what was formerly she begins vomiting up dark matter into the sink at the center of the universe. Death the Reaper comes to her as she expels the sin-waste from her body. 3 hours later she is not herself.

Death in the Tarot is not the End. Death is but the first step in a new journey. The divine triplicate suicide left her with but a clay mask to hide the bursting prismatic goddess beneath. She breathes life into herself, becoming her own mother. Like the Phoenix she shaped herself from the ashes, and she soars up up up onto new feet. Her first steps are towards the outside, and her first sight is a new morning. For the first and only time in her short, prior life she is an artist.

Different, but the same, she takes her first words and they are sure and confident ones, from familiar coral lips that have now found a voice.

To enter the infinite ocean of one’s subconscious is not an easy task. To come out of it and bring something with you is even more of an arduous effort. For Diver, her/his/their task was even worse, something only really possible when you hit rock bottom or get caught cheating; he/she/they was going to put something in. It was a small something, a featureless mirror-shine black cube of an idea, but a sturdy one nonetheless. And it would have to be, to survive a crushing psycho dive through each of the 4 layers of her/his/their mind. Unlike the daunting task before her/him/them, the world around was so benign it slipped away like the weakest of tides. Raindrops were beating slowly against the dusty window, only a static feedback hum compared to the tempestuous mental interior. But, said storm could be weathered,the golden rule was thus; don’t stop and smell the roses.Did you want to end up jacked in a feedbox loop of your own pitiful fucking fancy or you want to actually change something? Pre-flight’s got to be done at a whirlwind pace . No sacred geometry beige-brown room for him/her/its/them to buoy back to a co-pilot and bounce ideas off while they decide which river (pills or psych ward) they float you down: A one woman/person/man/thing job. The Diver closed his/her/their eyes as the darkened room shrunk to match the contours of his/her/their face.

Positioned at the end of his/her/their skull, the Diver leapt headfirst into the first portion of The Mindscape; The Gap. Salty air peppered with desiccated thought filled the Diver’s nose as the hard firmament grew farther and farther away. This was the easiest portion of the dive, with nothing but remains as a comfort. Still, in the ashes of so much thinking, one could often find a forgotten relic, and it was not uncommon to scrape The Gaps for trinkets, as a return trip back up from the first layer was nothing at all. Soaring through the air, Diver let the idea of swimming back up and out, away from the dark depths that lay further on. But if Diver did not do this now, it would only prolong the suffering, like a wounded animal being denied a final mercy, eventually the carrion of sorrow would devour the soul whole. This line of thinking would only make the trip itself harder, as change was no easier than death, and yet self doubt was practically a necessity when deprived of a self.

Harsh, whipping air subsided as the Diver rushed to meet the second layer's taught surface. With a silent splash Diver descended, leaving only ripples as evidence anyone had ever penetrated these depths. Following The Gap, the first part of the mind proper was The Gate, named for its liquid crimson barrier that led to uncountable pathways beyond. An unskilled diver could be swept up in a tide of thought and carried down into the cavernous gyres below. Ironically, since Diver's target was vertical and not horizontal,getting a little swept up was ideal. All around in the chaotic streams grew vibrant schools of thought, rich in color and bountiful with idea, but these were too far from the core persona to ever be anything other than fleeting. One could insert an opinion here and be out before it crystallizes into anything resembling reflexive memory. And so, Diver descended as even the bubbles that trailed upwards faded to red and shadow. Entering a groove, Diver paused once more before the door that held the final leg of the journey. Thoughts of turning back perished swiftly, aided by the courage compounded through one small victory, and yet self defeating would not become any less appetizing. So onward still Diver went.

The Gaps alkaline broth sublimated into endless blue green fields of grasses, small flowers, and the occasional tree. Here Diver lay in The Garden, the 3rd layer where thoughts were born in the rich dark soil. One could breathe and be alone here if they were so inclined. It was a safe space so to speak, though a predatory thought or two was always waiting on the outskirts of infinity. Diver walked barefoot through the ebony soil, hands running against the flowers strewn about. The thought carried within was worn, battered by the pressures of the depth, but being among such fertile grounds caused it to hum with excitement like a content animal. With every carefree step, the burden of carrying such a simple idea so deep into the mind grew. In defiance of the airless pressure mounting back between the eyes, Diver strolled on towards the final resting place.

Eons passed by as the infinite plain of the Garden began to fade away. First went the luscious grasses as light grew dimmer and dimmer. Then, as their remains stopped renewing the soil or floated upwards to become so much more debris, the ground lost its slick sheen. There was no moisture either, as nothing had bothered to try and live away from the endless bounty. All that was left was the Diver, now hobbled by the silent weight. Soon all light faded, and with it, the Diver lost the ability to perceive ones-self. In spite of all this nothingness, something moved towards the ultimate absence, the void at the end of all things. To the surprise of many, there came a noise from a place where no noise had ever been made; something was dropped, or spilled, or broken; A final responsibility finally shirked.

As something fell, the thing that was once Diver felt the empty, airless pressure dissipate like a fast-fading fog. There was room now, She desperately wanted room for her thoughts to grow and fertilize the barren womb of her innermost mindscsape.

It could take time for the full ramifications of the events. transpired to ever see the light of day. There was a possibility that any effects could only be temporary. Darker still, it was possible that the ripples cascading out from the deepest recesses of the mind would never bubble up to the surface as anything tangible. But, as the Diver, now She, floated up and away towards consciousness, she turned her head to see just what had transpired below not a moment prior. In a place that had been empty prior to this lay these words: