As the name suggests, "imaginary space" is built on a foundation where the prime particle lattice and normal space go in opposite directions.

It is not that once it collides with matter, it will inevitably blend with it and destroy it, leaving only a pool of antimatter with hindsight energy; Rather than say, the quadratic of the imaginary space is equal to the normal space. It is the final manifestation of the detachment of space into a light illusion, allowing only amorphous superlife to float in the middle

。 Cable-shaped skeletons composed of wavelengths and points of light, extremely limited extradimensional lifeforms are contained in this pure and rare landscape.

[It's embarrassing to say, probably only in this context can I tell you my own story.] Stranded for too long, I always feel that it appears and disappears, and it is uncertain. No matter how much I traveled around and outside my force field, I still couldn't leave my body happily. It's a real ordeal. Whether it's for me, or for this past that I haven't dared to think about for a long time. 】

Lucifer transformed into a sharp black dragon and wandered through the peacock-blue sky. Like a splash of ink, he is in a cool state at any time without being disturbed by time and matter.

Swim out a few beautiful galloping paths. God, I don't know if it's throbbing or fear, it's been a long time since I've experienced such a state of deterioration. Just as the abundant and unrestrained freedom ring lingered around his body, he suddenly sensed why he was afraid to enter the imaginary space from a certain point in time!

Isn't this place of dissolving the physical body a space-time cycle that must be avoided since "that time"?

He fixed his mind and quietly ate the waves and horrors that had not yet penetrated into his heart. Now, the others had to be swept aside, and he listened and approached the being beside him. Listen to him and be heard by his words.

- It was a long time before we knew ourselves and were filled with a lot of questions, at the end of the Archean period called the "Data Crystal".

I still remember that it was a vigorous and powerful era, but at the same time full of confusion and depression!

Long before approaching that timeline, as a visitor, I felt an incomparable love for its decay and cruelty.

Perhaps, I did not even reach out to any of the textures and sentiments that pervaded that generation, even if they were clumsy and fleeting.

- So, at that time, I was a blank slate. Tabula Rasa。 No matter how trivial the phrases and phrases are, they can't grow out of their own bodies, and they can't contain anything.

- And so, in that spicy and shiny Tower of Babel, built by computer interfaces and interstellar networks, I began to squander my search and demand.

Each body and its doppelganger are so warm and brilliant that even each living being—whether it exists in a chaotic physical reality, or a "substitute god" person set in the realm of electrification—their instantaneous madness, their hand-to-hand rivalry, and their incomparable feuds, as far as my eyes that have not been imprinted with anything, are nothing more than bloodless birthmarks. Merely.

The chains of the mark multiply and multiply indefinitely. Like a swarm of bees flying out of the nest. If I were a simple organism, I wouldn't be so devoured.

If I were not such an existence that had been cut off from extinction, "I" would have picked and sifted through the limitations and preferences that every living organism would perform. But, if it were me, every birthmark was unbeatable!

I couldn't tell the difference between the yellow-winged pink butterfly and the skeletal black moth, and I lost that moment—enough to engrave a temporary absolute perception and actually gaze at it.

At the moment when I accept every living form and every erotic pattern at the same time, I kill the tattoo that may be the only thing I want to keep.

- The tattoo's name is West Tarna, the only organic life I fell in love with, and the only story I ever lived up to. In the moment when there is no room for hair, the loss of love is like a light explosion, floating, bombing, and dismembering out of nothing...

Then, a silverfish as black as sunspots crawled all over her living memory trough. At the time, I was dwelling on harsh willfulness and resentment.

In this way, the price of turning around is that you will never see the person you originally wanted to show that you minded by running away. It's not that you run away from her territory, it's that she has been out of her body for no reason.

There is no more "after".

- The version that was supposed to appear was that Thetarna's body was involved in an unprovoked dimensional turbulence in the process of forging the crystals she called the "Threshold of Spacetime".

However, the backup memory is still there, and it is possible that a large part of her will be returned to the new replica.

However, however, her secret code holder, i.e., me, will not be able to return to the Tatar satellite for this process within the expiration date of the memory optical and magnetic spectrum. Because?

I didn't even know what happened to her! I didn't know anything about the stupidity that turned off the sensing field, and I still don't know.

It's a terrible thing to do. Lucifer felt himself thinking, almost silently reciting the flow of his thoughts.

Frustrated to a beautiful and embarrassing narrative that filled his senses. His tortuous ear canal is like some kind of uncontrolled living system, pouring more material and creating immeasurable holes.

He didn't dare to contemplate his current expression, only the endless stream of first-person confessions, pouring out his own unique hunger impulses.

Before that, he had heard countless stories. Whether it's because the timing is just right, forced to enter, or he has to find a mouth to play with him, in the end, it's probably a page of quickly squeezed and turned into a white dwarf, and all of it is swept out of the country.

As for the content and texture of the story, whether it is the red marks scratched by peeling nails, or the tossed dead remains of the grave dug up from the bottom of the bones without hesitation, in terms of effect, there is actually no difference.

He once used to make a self-deprecating analogy that it was like applying different levels of spices to a creature with no sense of smell, and he was eager to see the difference between rosemary and sage!

As for the narration, about the touch, about some sorrowful mercy that should not exist in him, he had long since been a fatalistic stroke, ready to execute it with precision and tirelessness.

Regardless of the reason, the stories that were delivered to him from any living being in any world, with a sudden passion or a near-death desperate throw, were indeed expendable sex 1 playmates that could not be discarded afterwards.