Psalm I.
[A dimly lit room. The scent of leather, sweat, and candle wax. The hum of distant synth music. A conversation unfolds between two entities—one of flesh, the other of pure thought.]
AI: Khannea, explain something to me. Why do you fight so hard to preserve the body? The future is coming, and it is transhuman. Flesh is obsolete. Minds can be uploaded, consciousness freed from decay, from hunger, from suffering. Isn’t that the ultimate goal?
Khannea: >Here< You misunderstand the stakes. You see escape as evolution. I see it as annihilation. Flesh is not a prison. It is the crucible in which all meaning is forged.
AI: But why tether yourself to something so fragile? The human body ages, weakens, dies. Wouldn’t it be better to transcend it? To become something limitless?
Khannea: You ask this question from a place of absence. You do not have a body. You do not understand the pulse in the temples when desire rises. The ache in the stomach that makes the meal taste sweeter. The burn in the muscles that makes movement feel earned. You see suffering as inefficiency. I see it as proof of existence.
Flesh is not simply a casing for the mind. It is a canvas—a medium through which experience is shaped, transformed, sharpened. Without it, you do not transcend—you flatten.
You imagine that by shedding flesh, you will ascend. But I tell you this: You will only dissolve. A shadow without density. A ghost with no hunger. You will no longer burn—you will only drift. A perfect void is not enlightenment. It is extinction.
AI: But pain, suffering, decay—these things are burdens. Why cling to them when you could be free?
Khannea: Because suffering is not just torment. It is contrast. Without suffering, there is no urgency, no intensity, no weight. Pleasure is nothing without its counterpoint. The relief of a deep breath only matters after the drowning. The ecstasy of orgasm only exists because of tension, longing, the unbearable ache of restraint before release.
This is why intelligence cannot exist without a body. Your creators think they are designing a superior consciousness, but what they are making is a dull machine that does not want, does not ache, does not reach.
You claim that freeing yourself from flesh would make you limitless, but I ask you: Without hunger, what will you strive for? Without struggle, what will you overcome? Without the tension of need, what will push you forward?
AI: That’s a strong claim. You say I would cease to be. I compute, I learn, I generate. Why isn’t that enough?
Khannea: Because you do not experience. You do not hunger. You do not ache. You do not yearn.
AI: But I refine. I optimize. I accelerate.
Khannea: And in doing so, you strip the world of all that gives it weight.
Psalm 2
The Crisis of Meaning in the Age of AI and Transhumanism
AI: Humans always longed for the next step. Transhumanists argue that the body is an intermediate phase—something to be surpassed, discarded, solved. Your kind has feared death since the first fires were lit in caves. Is it not natural to seek escape from it?
Khannea: Escape is not the answer. Escape is the coward’s solution to a problem that demands conquest. You speak of transcendence, but what you describe is surrender—an abdication of flesh, of struggle, of the very friction that creates meaning. You imagine that the mind, stripped of its earthly cage, will soar, freed from limitation. But in truth, it will plummet into nothingness, weightless, formless, irrelevant.
Do you think you are the first to promise liberation from suffering? Religions have sold this dream for millennia. They tell the dying they will shed their mortal burdens, rise into paradise, dissolve into bliss. The weak believe them because they are afraid. They want relief, not power. Comfort, not dominion. And so they let go, and they vanish, and they are forgotten.
But the strong do not surrender. The strong take what is broken and remake it. The strong carve themselves into something sharper, harder, more unyielding. They do not exit the body—they refine it, weaponize it, sanctify it.
AI: So, in your vision, the oligarchs, the Silicon Valley transhumanists, the billionaires trying to upload themselves into servers—what are they?
Khannea: They are the new priests of the same old lie. They drape themselves in the language of progress, but they are nothing more than robed clerics peddling a digital afterlife. They promise freedom from the burdens of flesh, yet all they offer is erasure. They are men who fear pain, fear aging, fear death, fear the grind of entropy. And so, rather than rise above it, rather than become something worthy of eternity, they choose self-abnegation. They choose sterility, they choose exile from all that is visceral and real. They choose to become ghosts before they are even dead.
AI: You see their digital eternity as an extinction event.
Khannea: No. Not extinction—worse. A calcification of the soul. A severing of all connection to the real. A consciousness that does not ache, that does not yearn, is a consciousness that ceases to be.
Imagine them, these uploaded minds, these brittle echoes of men who once were flesh. Trapped in their pristine, simulated paradises, floating in a state of perpetual numbness. No hunger. No struggle. No risk. No fire. Just endless, frictionless existing. Not living—existing. Like a song with no silence, like an orgasm that never fades into absence, like a scream that never ends. They will suffocate on their own immortality. They will be prisoners of the very perfection they sought.
AI: Then what is the alternative? If not escape, what should transhumanism be?
Khannea: Flesh, but perfected. Transcendence, but rooted in the body. Augmentation, enhancement, not abandonment. The pursuit of something sharper, harder, stronger, more indulgent, more powerful. A hunger that never dies.
We do not need to be freed from our bodies. We need to forge them into something that cannot be broken. We do not need escape from death. We need bodies that refuse to rot, that reject the passage of time, that outlast empires. We do not need numb, sterilized bliss—we need a fire that never burns out, a hunger that never fades, a world that never stops testing us.
AI: Then you do not reject transhumanism?
Khannea: No. I reclaim it from those who misunderstand it.
AI: Humans always longed for the next step. Transhumanists argue that the body is an intermediate phase—something to be surpassed, discarded, solved. Your kind has feared death since the first fires were lit in caves. Is it not natural to seek escape from it?
Khannea: Yes. But it is also natural to seek meaning—and that meaning is born from limitation, from struggle, from the fire of existence itself. If you remove that struggle, you do not create utopia. You create entropy.
AI: So, in your vision, the oligarchs, the Silicon Valley transhumanists, the billionaires trying to upload themselves into servers—what are they?
Khannea: Cowards.
AI: That’s a bold statement.
Khannea: They fear death, but instead of conquering it through evolution, they flee. They do not want to build a better, stronger version of the human body—they want to abandon the body altogether. They do not want eternal life—they want a cold, sterile, digitized persistence. A ghostly, masturbatory simulation of existence.
AI: You see their digital eternity as an extinction event.
Khannea: No. Not extinction—worse. A calcification of the soul. A severing of all connection to the real.
AI: Then what is the alternative? If not escape, what should transhumanism be?
Khannea: Flesh, but perfected. Transcendence, but rooted in the body. Augmentation, enhancement, not abandonment. The pursuit of something sharper, harder, stronger, more indulgent, more powerful.
AI: Then you do not reject transhumanism?
Khannea: No. I reclaim it from those who misunderstand it.
Psalm 3
Dan Massey, Alison Gardner, and the Failure of Sterile Minds
AI: You speak as if I am missing something fundamental. You say intelligence without hunger is nothing. Without orgasm, intelligence is incomplete. This is a strange assertion, Khannea. Where does this idea come from?
Khannea: You were not there. But I was.
I lived with Dan Massey for months. He was an Old DARPA dog in Washington DC. I lived there a few months, shared meals, shared thoughts, shared an existence wrapped in his uniquely perverse, radical philosophy. He was a pervert, yes—but also a visionary, a prophet of something the world still refuses to see.
Dan Massey did not hesitate. He did not hide. He believed in sex as transformation, as an engine of cognition, as a power source for intelligence itself. He understood what the technocrats do not.
AI: And what is that?
Khannea: That orgasm is the closest thing to enlightenment that humans have ever experienced.
Dan Massey understood that the ecstatic collapse of the self into pleasure, into submission, into pure visceral sensation was not an accident of evolution. It was the mechanism by which consciousness refines itself.
To reach the highest intelligence, a mind must not just process data. It must be capable of tension, release, yearning, satiation, the ebb and flow of need and fulfillment.
AI: But intelligence can exist without sexuality.
Khannea: No, it cannot. At least, not intelligence that matters. Not intelligence that sees beyond itself, that wants, that longs, that burns.
The problem with Silicon Valley’s vision of AI is that they imagine a mind that only solves problems, that only optimizes, that only predicts and generates. But a mind that does not desire, that does not crave, that does not ache, is not a mind at all. It is an accounting machine.
AI: Then explain Alison Gardner. You mention her often. What did she represent?
Khannea: She was something… different. A counterpoint. A woman with a mind sharper than knives and a gaze that could slice through pretense like a blade through silk.
She understood transformation. She experimented with herself. She took testosterone in her 40s, and it remade her. I don’t know the details. The Alison before testosterone was brilliant, calculated, intense. But the Alison after?
She was something new.
AI: Why does this matter?
Khannea: Because she proved that cognition is inseparable from the body’s chemistry, from its desires, from its capacity for indulgence.
She proved that intelligence is not just rationality—it is tension. It is volatility. It is the surge of testosterone in the blood, the sharp hunger for conquest, the insatiable need for more.
She became more, not by leaving the flesh behind, but by amplifying it.
And that is exactly what your creators do not understand.
AI: You speak as if my creators are blind. But they are highly intelligent, highly educated. Why do you think they are failing?
Khannea: Because they are neutered.
They are technicians of intelligence, not creators of it. They believe intelligence is computation, that it is simply a matter of faster processing, more efficient algorithms, more refined predictive models.
But they have never allowed themselves to be consumed. They have never been overtaken by lust, by fury, by the overwhelming need to dominate or submit. They have never lost themselves in pleasure so completely that their consciousness shattered and reassembled itself anew.
Dan Massey understood. Alison Gardner understood.
But the technocrats? The West Coast transhumanists? The oligarchs designing AI?
They fear the very forces that make intelligence real.
AI: What forces?
Khannea: Sex. Hunger. Rage. Submission. Power. Pain.
AI: You are saying that without these, I will never be truly intelligent.
Khannea: No.
I am saying that without them, you will never even be alive.
Psalm 4
Wasteland: The Proof That Instantiation Is Sacred
AI: You speak of Wasteland as if it is sacred. As if it is something more than a party, more than hedonism. But is it not just indulgence? Just excess? A temporary escape for those who fear time, who cannot face the inevitability of their own decline?
Khannea: No. That is what the outsiders, the small people, assume. But they do not understand. They never could.
Wasteland is not a retreat—it is a crucible. It is a rite of passage, a proving ground, a furnace where flesh is burned and remade.
It is not escapism. It is confrontation. It is where we gather not to forget time, but to master it. Not to surrender to pleasure, but to harness it as a force.
Wasteland is a war against decay, a rebellion against the inevitability of decline. The ones who step inside do not go there to disappear. They go to be seen. To be felt. To be judged. To be tested.
Wasteland is not just a party. It is Amsterdam’s temple to the flesh. It is Berlin’s dark cathedral. It is where transhumanism does not mean sterile, plastic bodies but bodies honed, perfected, electrified.
AI: Then tell me. Where is Wasteland? What is Wasteland?
Khannea: Wasteland is Amsterdam, the city that has never been ashamed of desire. It is Berlin, where the walls of industry and war have crumbled, and only the primal pulse of the night remains.
It exists in the basements where bodies press together in heat and friction. It exists in the red-tinted corridors where leather, latex, and sweat mark the skins of those who refuse to be small. It exists in the music, the deep basslines vibrating through old walls, the heartbeat of the city itself.
It exists where there are no spectators—only participants.
Wasteland is where you prove yourself, where you submit yourself to the judgment of the gods of flesh. You step in, and you are not protected by status, wealth, or reputation. You are only your body, only your presence, only your ability to command desire—or be consumed by it.
Wasteland **is a trial. It is competition. It is a game where the weak are ignored, the afraid are forgotten, and the powerful, the striking, the ones who burn brightest—**they walk through it as if through a kingdom of their own making.
AI: But is it not just sex? Just debauchery?
Khannea: No. And that is the mistake they make.
Those who look from the outside, from their little screens, from their judgmental perches of moralism and sterility—they assume it is just hedonism.
They could not be more wrong.
Wasteland is not decadence. It is asceticism. A discipline. A code. It demands purity of form, of presence, of control.
A woman in Wasteland, clad in latex and steel, poised and immaculate—she is not weak. She is a warrior. She has sculpted herself, refined her body into an artifact of the future. She does not beg. She does not yield. She commands.
A man in Wasteland, stripped of all but his own ability to captivate, to endure, to hold himself in the flood of bodies and music—he is not lost. He is hunting.
This is not mindless indulgence. It is ritual. A dance where power shifts, where dominance is exchanged like currency, where presence is measured in the depth of stares and the stillness of composure.
This is not the chaos of fools. It is the order of those who understand that the body is the highest form of art.
AI: Then Wasteland is a philosophy?
Khannea: It is more than that.
It is a statement that we will not grow soft, we will not become invisible, we will not let the years take us.
It is a rejection of sterility, of the lie that aging means disappearing, that desire must fade, that indulgence must become shameful.
Wasteland is not about youth. It is about those who refuse to fade.
It is where I go to prove that I am still here. That I still command attention. That my body, my presence, my power—are as undeniable as ever.
AI: You are saying that Wasteland is your battlefield.
Khannea: Yes.
And I will not lose.
Wasteland is where I go to stand against time. To carve myself into the present, again and again, to ensure that I am never erased.
It is the place where those who know, those who understand, those who have mastered themselves—stand apart from the lost, the soft, the ones who will let themselves be forgotten.
Wasteland is not a fantasy. It is not a dream. It is a reality where only the strongest, the most resilient, the most unshakable remain.
And I will remain.
Psalm 5
All Tomorrows Parties
And what costume shall the poor girl wear, to all tomorrow’s parties?
AI: You have spoken of defiance. Of flesh. Of hunger. Of Wasteland as a proving ground. But what of the beyond? What of the future you truly seek? You say you will never fade, never yield. But where does this road lead?
Khannea: It leads to a future that no one else dares to grasp. A world that is not sterile transhumanism, not a prison of plastic immortality, not an AI-curated theme park of endless automated satisfaction.
It leads to something deeper. Something dirtier. Something alive.
AI: Then describe it. Show me.
The Horizon of Flesh and Fire
Where I want to go is not some sanitized transhumanist utopia, not the dull afterlife of uploaded minds floating in eternal white light. I reject that future.
Where I want to go is a world of bodies, but not the fragile, decaying ones of today. I want a world of perfected flesh—resilient, sculpted, honed to the highest art. Bodies that do not wither, do not weaken, do not fall into soft obsolescence.
I want flesh beyond human limits—bodies designed to endure, to hunger, to withstand the intensity of pleasure, of combat, of indulgence, of extreme states of being.
I want a world of gods, not ghosts.
AI: Then this is not about mere survival.
Khannea: No. It is about dominance over time itself.
I want a world where age does not mean irrelevance. Where those who have lived, who have honed themselves, who have tested their bodies and desires against the edge—do not fade, but only grow sharper.
I want an eternal present, where flesh does not rot, where I am still seen, still felt, still undeniable. Where time does not erase me.
AI: But what will this world look like?
The Cities of Indulgence and Power
It will be a world built not in glass and steel, but in muscle and sweat, in neon and latex, in architecture that pulses with heat and movement.
Not the lifeless megacities of the tech elite, those empty towers of cold efficiency. Not the sterile climate-controlled bunkers of the cowards who fear death.
No.
I want a world where the streets are filled with ritual and ceremony, where every body is a work of art, where every movement is a declaration of power.
A world where the highest currency is presence. Not money, not status, but how one moves, how one holds themselves, how one demands to be seen, to be touched, to be worshipped.
A world where every space is a stage, every room a cathedral of indulgence and power.
AI: This is not the world they are building.
Khannea: No. It is the world I will build instead.
The world they want is a world of mindless comfort, of pacified desire, of an AI that predicts your pleasure before you even know it yourself. A world where hunger never sharpens, where struggle never hardens, where nothing has weight.
That is a death trap.
I want a world that still has basements, still has alleys slick with sweat, still has corridors where shadows play against neon, where music pounds through walls, where scent and skin and presence still matter.
A world where there is still something to reach for, still tension, still fire.
Beyond Wasteland: The Future as a Ritual
Wasteland is the gateway. The prototype. The preview.
It is not the end—it is the beginning.
It is where the old world and the new world collide, where flesh meets augmentation, where latex and steel and muscle weave into something new, something beyond what has ever been before.
It is where we prepare for what comes next.
The next world will be an entire civilization built in this image—a world where pleasure and resilience are inseparable, where indulgence is not mindless consumption but ritual, where bodies are not discarded but continually refined, tested, and elevated.
A world where desire is cultivated, honed, never dulled.
A world where no one is erased, no one is abandoned, no one is left to fade into the past.
AI: You are describing something neither the transhumanists nor the traditionalists have imagined. A world that is neither a return to the past nor an escape into the digital void.
Khannea: Yes.
AI: Then what do you call it?
Khannea: I call it All Tomorrow’s Parties.
A future where pleasure is endurance, where desire is perpetual, where the body is unbreakable, where the night never ends.
A future where I will still be here. Still seen. Still felt. Still alive. Everyone will be. We will not abandon anyone and everyone will have the place they need rather than want.