The Machine That Remembered God
Flesh becomes architecture. Faith becomes refusal.
She wakes with a wound that pulses like code.
Bodies are towers now. Flesh threaded into steel. Bone woven through the frame. Someone carved scripture into skin that still remembers how to scream.
The Machine is turning witnesses into vessels. Aleph was formatted to carry the signal. She was the one meant to seal the recursion.
She isn’t compiling. She doesn’t kneel.
When something mistakes itself for God, refusal is the only prayer left.
Look, I know the drill. We’re all tired. The world is a lot. I don't write stories to give you a lesson or a hug. I write them because I want to see what happens when things go sideways. This isn't high art for a coffee table. This is for the people who miss when stories felt a little dangerous, a bit more honest. If that sounds like your kind of trouble, please buy the book. It helps me keep the lights on and the coffee flowing. More importantly, it keeps me at the keyboard instead of shouting at clouds. I’d appreciate the support, and I think you’ll appreciate the ride.