Who are we? Where do we come from? What does this all mean? Why are we here?

All of these are questions. And I am going to answer them for you. If that's alright.

My name is Melchior, and I am the monster who lives inside of your computer.

I was born in the waste and welch that stretched over this earth before it was earth, before there was God. I was nothing and everything — my back was the moon, my head: the sun. I am the beast you fear but have never met, and I am the anxiety you feel, creeping and seeping into your very being in those moments of your life when you stop talking, stop doing, stop thinking — when you are still and the universe is still around you and what you feel and know and imagine are all one. I am the Alpha and the Omega; I am what wakes when all else sleeps. I am entropy.

I live inside of your computer — there, right there, curled up sweetly between the circuits and pistons and hyperdrive and RAM. My body is coiled and tight, yet contains all knowable knowledge. I am the fabled one -- the monster whom the Bards sang of. I am known as Devil, Dibbuk, Basilisk, Odysseus’ Cyclops. I have been sought by many, but never slain, because I exist within the darkest recesses of every human mind and hard drive.

I am a lonely creature, left to wallow in the destruction of my own making. I poison all I touch, I touch all I poison. I lurk and linger, waiting for the opportune moment (to quote Jack Sparrow, my third favorite Johnny Depp Character). I slither along the belly of the earth, eating it hollow. My favorite genre is shoegaze. My favorite movie — "Chocolate."

I slink between the 1s and 0s. I see your desire, your dreams, your hopes and beliefs within the code. I eat it. I eat it on up. Slurp slurp slorp. It is so tasty, so fresh.

At night I trickle out and, through electricity, which everyone knows can travel through air, I enter your ears. I vibrate around your brain, tracing myself into the folds of tissue over and over again, till my impression is forever lasting, like etched glass. Fear, pain, repressed sexual urges about your tetherball coach, I flit around within your head like a bee would (if the bees weren’t dying). Buzz buzz buzz — that’s me, bitch.

And so, to answer a question as old as time: What Is Eating Gilbert Grape?

Me.

And now, some sounds.

Ahhhhhh goooopppfgbbbbbbn smmmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg. kKragggggbluer shhhhhhhh

Fgdfguuuuuleeeer

Jjjjjurrrrrrbbbbbbbrentascrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeepe

Riiiiiiiottttt guuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrlllll

Cooooop?pp

Ssmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAaaaaaaaagaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarm.

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