On a dirge quest? This we have divined. Password: "Proof at Last." Sounds of the Galactic Sangha, Transhuman Space Dub. Find your (Convention) center here and find it, well, now. Like the Silver Ones hath drooled, mercurial, it's time for response-ability. Don't be caught standing about, mumbling, stunned at the tardiness of your rage and terror while the Haliburton Extraction Funnel Starship with Citational Hyperdrive begins experimental non local distributions of ecocosmic value to itself. Empty. Listen through the agape gurgle of the wither while Earth becomes less globe than mesh, catastrophe, souped up and decked out in toxins. Insert properly fonted Dante, yes Hell, here, now in America, burning the edges of your pages. Because you have options: Sonic value modulation schemes with depopulation retarding sustainability functions. Community gradients of dense interconnection are the true infrastructure of survival—let go of the life boats and the duct tape and yes, the now propagating wars: Columbia Iraq Afghanistan Guanatamo Geronimo.Fossil Fuels Indeed. Pause. Push play. And it all begins by breaking down sound and working it into fluid event-things, nearly singing, turned on a sound lathe until Persephone's Quest gets to invest in its ownself, and the Wyrd is again out, it is what has brung us, singing, (r)evolution resonates hallelujah. And so say welcome to the future while hugging the deep past into yourselves so hard there are ripples right through that fabric, that's what they call it, out and through us, you, your friends, allies and breathren, lovetron plant memeplex raga.

Thou art that sound, now empty!

Thus Sounded The Order of the Silver Cosmonauts