"Nicthating Membranes Back The Second" or "Breathless Tomb"

On a cold Christmas Eve, the world above was adorned in twinkling lights and the soft sound of carols, but beneath the surface, the ocean was a different realm—dark, cold, and suffocating. Jenna inhaled sharply, feeling the pressure of the water pressing against her chest, a stark reminder of her condition. Asthma had always been her unwelcome companion, tightening its grip when she needed to breathe the most.

The dark water shimmered with hints of luminescent life, a vibrant contrast to her breathless tomb. She thought of the "Nicthating Membranes Back," an ancient artifact rumored to have the power to heal, hidden deep within the aquatic caverns. If only she could find it, perhaps the mucus echoes of her struggles would quiet, and the asthmatic bells in her lungs would finally cease their toll.

As Jenna descended further, the pressure of the depths enveloped her like a heavy cloak, dragging her down. Each stroke felt heavier as the pneumonic pendulum swung, measuring her struggle against the inexorable tide. Inhaling sharply, her breath came shallow, the pulsating rhythm of the ocean reminding her of her fragile existence.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the murk—the Lobular Masque, a guardian of the deep, cloaked in scales that glinted like silver. Its eyes held wisdom and sorrow, and Jenna felt a connection. She spoke, her voice a silent prayer carried by the currents. “Please, help me find the Membranes.”

The Lobular Masque regarded her thoughtfully, then moved with grace, leading her deeper into the abyss. The surroundings shifted, vibrant coral reefs flickering like forgotten dreams, yet somewhere in the distance, she could feel the pulse of a nightmare waiting to unfold. Pulmonary nightmares, curdling with darkness, began to circle her thoughts.

They reached a cavern lined with shimmering stones—the fabled resting place of the Nicthating Membranes Back. As she reached for it, a wave of tranquility washed over her. The artifact pulsated with warmth, a gentle rhythm matching her own racing heart. She felt the constriction in her chest loosen gradually, and the water around her began to swirl away the panic and fear.

As Jenna held the artifact, the asthmatic bells fell silent. The echoes of her breath—once raspy and labored—now flowed like a song through the water, vibrating with newfound clarity. In that moment, the caverns weren't just a breathless tomb; they became a sanctuary of healing.

With the Lobular Masque by her side, Jenna surfaced, breaking through to the Christmas Eve sky above, filled with stars. She took a deep breath, the air filling her lungs, unshackled at last. The ocean had taught her resilience, and as she looked back at the shimmering depths, she realized that even in the darkness, there is a light waiting to guide the way home.

"Nicthating Membranes Back Two" JRS 70623

In the ochreous expanse of the Ochreous Desert, where the sun blazed down relentlessly, there lay a secret it was not the stark clarity of speech that defined them—a mirage, shimmering and deceitful, that whispered tales of a realm beneath the surface. This was a world inhabited by the Effulgence Senescent People, beings who glowed with an otherworldly light, yet bore the wrinkles of wisdom and age. They were the guardians of stories long forgotten, their memories woven into the very fabric of the land.

The Effulgent People believed in the power of words, and in their underwater city of Phobos, known as The Narrower, their language danced through the currents, forming phrases that flowed like liquid light. Yet, as time passed, their society fell prey to phonemic paraphasias—determination, he descended deeper into the Abyss of Silence—a vast underwater cavern, untouched by the sun's rayswords that slipped and twisted into nonsensical forms, obscuring meaning and stranding their ideas in a sea of confusion. Conversations became riddles; histories turned into jumbled echoes, creating dissonance in the once-harmonious underwater metropolis.

Amidst this chaos lived Omar, the Ancient, a wise figure who had seen eons unfold. Omar had witnessed the rise and fall of clarity and comprehension. He roamed the coral corridors of Phobos, searching for echoes of the past to mend the fractured language of his people.....

In this lightless realm, Omar encountered creatures of the deep, guardians of forgotten lexicons. As he spoke the fragmented words that still resonated in his mind, he realized that some meanings were lost, while others emerged, reversed and twisted. They captivated him with surreal twists of language that both bewildered and enchanted. “Read these not in haste,” they warned him, “for clarity is fleeting beneath the weight of water.”
In shadows where whispers drift like the tide,
Where tangled words flutter, an elusive guide,
It was not the stark clarity of speech that defined them,
But the dance of the heart and the light that entwined them.  

Through currents of meaning, where echoes entwine,
They found strength in the broken, the mess intertwined.
For stories are woven in colors of night,
In the warmth of their glow, they embraced the delight.  

Like stars lost to daylight, their words took new flight,
In the depths of confusion, they birthed their own light.
So let not your speech be a prison of form,


As he returned to Phobos, he carried with him a new understanding of their language, crafting stories that encapsulated the confusion and the brilliance of their existence. The Effulgence Senescent People gathered, drawn by the light that radiated from Omar's heart and words. They listened, captivated as he spun tales rich with images of their heritage, threads of history interwoven with the new meanings he had discovered in the dark.

Determined, Omar began piecing together the backwards phrases, forming them into new shapes. His efforts illuminated a hidden truth within chaos: the wisdom of the Effulgence Senescent People lay not simply in clarity, but in the embrace of ambiguity and the beauty of imperfection. 

As he returned to Phobos, he carried with him a new understanding of their language, crafting stories that encapsulated the confusion and the brilliance of their existence. The Effulgence Senescent People gathered, drawn by the light that radiated from Omar's heart and words. They listened, captivated as he spun tales rich with images of their heritage, threads of history interwoven with the new meanings he had discovered in the dark.

Thus, under the glow of shared understanding, the people found solace in their collective imperfection.

https://americantapes.bigcartel.com/

"Effulgence"

"The Lobular Masques of Echoes"
In the dim long-forgotten era, the year was 2089 BC, a time steeped in mystique and the ethereal. In a remote valley where shadows danced with the flickering flames of the night, a peculiar gathering unfolded. This was the time when the Luminal Gatherers, known to the few who dared to mention them as "Lobular Masques," convened to share tales of wonder, sorrow, and transformation.
"Tonight, dear souls, I tell you a tale of resonance and obscurity. Listen closely, for within these words lies the essence of our existence."

The audience leaned in, entranced, and Midnight Crow’s voice flowed like a river:

In the heart of the Realm of Echoes, there existed four artifacts of immense power: Obsidian Masque, Shadowed Heartbeat, Doomed Catacomb, and the forgotten song of the Cask Echoes. Each was steeped in legend and enigma, reflecting the souls that sought them.

The Obsidian Masque was said to grant its wearer the ability to perceive the truths that lay hidden within every heart. However, this truth came at a price; those who looked too deeply were often blinded by their revelations. Legend told of a traveler who donned the masque, only to become lost in the labyrinth of whispered confessions from the shadows, forever wandering the fringes of reality.
Then there was the Doomed Catacomb, a cavern entwined with despair and echoes of the fallen. It housed the spirits of those who had sought power without wisdom, doomed to roam its twisting paths for eternity. Many tales spoke of brave souls who wandered into its depths searching for answers, only to find their reflections twisted by regret.

Finally, the legendary Cask Echoes, a mythical vessel said to contain the songs of creation itself. Those who tapped into its melody could ignite passion, unravel the chaos within, and bring forth harmony in times of discord. It was both a gift and a curse, for the tune could only be heard by the pure of heart. Corruption of the soul led to a cacophony that twisted the very fabric of the world.
"One fateful eve," Midnight Crow continued, "a seeker emerged traversing the thin line between light and shadow, her name was Elysia. Driven by the need to understand her place in the world, she sought the Obsidian Masque, yearning for the truth of her lineage."
After incredible trials, Elysia stood at the threshold of the Doomed Catacomb. Inside, she faced her fears—those who had fallen, echoing their regrets, intertwined with her own. But rather than succumbing, she embraced their stories, using them to illuminate her path. 

Emerging from the catacomb, Elysia found the Shadowed Heartbeat waiting, resonating softly in her palms. It beckoned her to listen, to connect eternally with those who lived and those who had passed, a final gift before disappointment claimed her strength.

As she found the Cask Echoes, she understood—the song existed not for personal glory but as a bridge between spirits, a reminder that every heart carries not just its own echoes, but the pulses of countless lives before it. 
Echoes of a Stricken Soundcloud problem: 
In the year 2089 BC, a valley filled with whispers where shadows danced and tales twisted in candlelight. I am the cricket—a stricken mind, memories buzzing like broken strings. 

Masques! Obsidian and shadow, they call to me from within the dark. Midnight Crow speaks; his voice is a raven's caw, scratching the silence. I listen, yet find little wisdom in what’s said. “Truth hides,” he croons, “…behold the heartbeat.”

A Doomed Catacomb waits, twisting thoughts backward, a riddle spun from despair. “Awake!” it murmurs, but I falter, trembling in this echoing abyss. Whispers of the lost fill my tiny head, tales of towers and pained speech....
.

"Lobular Masques"

The Original Acking Tape 

***The red dust swirled, a crimson fog that choked even the filtered air of the habitat. **Pulmonary Nightmares** were a daily occurrence on Mars, a constant threat, but today, they were different. Today, they were…real. A guttural rattle, a sound like broken gears, escaped Elias’s throat, a physical echo of the *Asthmatic Bells* tolling in his mind, reminding him of earth's breath.
The **Breathless Tomb** of his oxygen tank loomed, nearly empty. He fumbled for the regulator, his vision blurring. He remembered a time when every lungful was a gift, taken for granted in a world of blue skies and whispering winds. He remembered…
…*Mars air and breathing problems*—an order from the lab, a directive that hung in the air as heavy as the martian atmosphere. No one could be trusted with their own breath, or so the government said.

He remembers the **Lobular Masque**, a suffocating mask of metallic cold. He remembers its press-fit across his face. The mask was like a second skin, but one that choked him.

He remembers the first days. Everything was always backwards.
The last entry in his log:

*…to write, the mission, the story, starts.*
*…found this morning the old journal. A terrible crime.*
*…the crime the record lathe that produced the original Acking Tape s/t LP . They have all been destroyed.*
*…the recordings disappeared!*
*…Inzane Studios (East Lansing, Michigan), 1 January - Feb 2025 - the date is crucial. The time is crucial.*
*… the Mix CD edition, but I need to fix it.*
Elias stumbled, gasping. A mechanical whirring filled the air, accompanied by a chorus of tiny squeaks. From the shadows, a hulking, deactivated maintenance bot, its chassis corroded, its optical sensors flickering, lurched forward. From its open service hatch, scurrying forms spilled forth. The rats. The machine began to speak, its voice a distorted, synthesized imitation of the Bard:

“*Hark, mortal, and attend! For I, a broken husk of steel and wire, do speak, through vermin’s choir! Reverse the flow!*
*The echoes gone. Of memories, it seems, the future it doth seem.*
*Before all truth, shall time unfurl, and bring the end to this world.*
*The tape, it spins, a phantom reel, revealing the great despair of every feel.*
*From shattered past, a twisted fate, a cruel decree, before it is too late.*
*The lathe, the sounds, the song it weaves, with threads of time, it's the one that deceives!*
*The disc of sound, a twisted key, to Inzane Studios, the time to see*
*For lo, the dust, it doth conceal, a truth, of which thy heart will reel!*
*And those who sought to steal the light, the hidden days, the hidden night.*
*From thy own breath, thy fate is sealed, and that which thou has found, it is revealed.*
*So heed my words, and heed them well, where the clock strikes doom, and heaven’s bell!*”

The bot shuddered, a rat disappearing into a open circuit. The sound of rats came from within, a metal and furry cacophony.
His mind raced. The mission to Mars, and the recordings from the lathe, had to be saved. And the air was thin…so thin…
He saw it then, in the swirling dust—a phantom. An image from another memory, an image from before the madness. And it was, he knew, his only hope.
He pulled the **Pneuma Pendulum** from its place. It was like a beacon, a silent bell chiming in his mind. The clock started ticking once again. The sound from the pendulum was not there, but in this madness it was always there. His mind raced, the vision was not there, but in this madness it was always there, always there...

ACKING TAPE lathe cut lp side one

**The Obsolete English Throat Ornament**

In the year 200,000 BC, on the cold, distant planet Pluto, a strange sight unfolded. Among the icy mists and swirling snowflakes, there existed a peculiar civilization that spoke a version of English so outdated that it barely resembled the language we know today. Their intricate throat ornaments, crafted from the carapaces of long-extinct Medusae, were not merely decorative; they were vessels for spoken words, preserving the past in elaborate sounds. These ornaments gleamed, each inscribed with characters from the ancients, some of which defied all sense.

"ท่านเป็นมดดำในโลกสีส้ม" one ornament whispered in backwards Thai, which translated somewhere in the chaos to “You are a black ant in an orange world.” This seemed nonsensical, yet it resonated with the spirit of those gathered in the shadow of the pond, where the icy waters beckoned as a mirror to their souls.

One day, as the auroras danced overhead, a group of curious beings gathered. They chanted in their cryptic dialect, exalting tales of Moral Inversion—a world where right was wrong and wrong was celebrated. Their vocalizations twisted and spiraled, filling the air with echoes of obsolete English.

Yet as the sun set, casting an otherworldly glow mixed with the chill from the frozen wasteland, they embarked on a peculiar ritual. It involved the consumption of hands and feet, but not as grotesque as it sounds. The participants believed that by feasting on these extremities, they absorbed the essence of life, drawing strength from the past to empower their present. 

"お祭りの後に、私たちは手を食べます。" One voice chanted in pure, rhythmic cadences reminiscent of ancient Japanese. ("After the festival, we eat hands.") The words hung in the air like spectral fish, swirling around their heads even as they stood shivering in the frigid waters, brave souls steeped in the delirium of tradition.

In that moment of communal reverie, the ice broke and the pond unleashed a cacophony of surprise. Characters from an alien script played out before them in strokes that mimicked Thai lettering, but backwards. They traced the letters philosophizing on their meaning, “彼の鶏肉が青い” whispered another ornament, “His chicken is blue.” Yet no one remembered whose chicken was referenced. The beings began to giggle, their laughter punctuating the icy silence.

As the sky twinkled with an array of stars, a reflective figure emerged from the depths of the pond—a shimmering entity. It began to sing their chants back to them, not in their awkward words, but in resonant frequencies that reverberated across the ground and up into the cosmos. The sound pulsed like a breath in the night. They were lost, but oddly comforted.

“हाथ और पैर ठंडा पानी में हैं,” one of the beings declared in a melodic tone, capturing the surrealism of their gathering. (“Hands and feet are in cold water.”) These utterances formed spectral networks in the air, leading them deeper into the labyrinth of their own existence. 

Overwhelmed by visions of swirling friends with backward Thai tattoos and nonsensical phrases floating above their heads, the beings understood that language was utterly fluid. Each syllable was like a snowflake, unique yet familiar, converging upon a singular moment of profound bewilderment. "彼はカニだ," came a voice echoing the Japanese text again, ("He is a crab.") This revelation echoed for all to ponder: were they crabs gathering under the veil of a cosmic cough?

Vibrations from their throat ornaments cascaded within the frosty atmosphere, transforming into a symphony of chaos. The pond became a theater where thought and available language intermingled madly, creating snatches of poetry like confetti flung into the air during their festivity of existence.




"Decameter Antena"

In the flickering glow of the server's core, SoundCloud crumbled — a glitch in the fabric of noise, a whisper of chaos. The arcane song by SPYKES, a twisted melody, seeped through the digital ether, causing circuits to bleed bleread—a substance unknown, shimmering and opaque.  

*“The lathe, the sounds, the song it weaves, with threads of time, it’s the one that deceives!”*  
*“Discus of sound, a twisted key, to Inzane Studios, the time to see,”*  
*“Yen shima, gireh, a lufe, s’kum, niw, aht, eht,”* (in a babble of gibberish)  
*“Frodo, elcar, ni yats eht, noitcudorp, eht, tnetnoc!”* (another jumble, mixing language fragments)  

The song's notes twisted backwards—*“sdeen eht, ni yrrac, eht, sretcarc”*—a cryptic curse echoing in the digital void. Circuits sputtered: *"bleed, circuits, bleed,"* but in a tongue of forgotten scripts. The soundwaves, tangled threads of a broken spell, wove in and out of incoherence:  

*"The disc of sound, a twisted key, to Inzane Studios, the time to see"*  
*"Yen shima, gireh, a lufe, s’kum, niw, aht, eht"*  
*“Blaread, bleeda, blor, blun, whizz, zork, plim!”*  

Some parts whispered in a language of lost memories, others in babble—a chaos of words: *“galdor, zhip, nara, melli, vorn, sabro,”* and *“kliem, jor, minta, srel, pado,”* blending into the static. The song’s core, a twisted tapestry of sound and nonsense, beckoned the hidden truths—*“a truth, of which thy heart will reel!”*—but only in riddles and backwards whispers.  

And in the midst of this digital dissonance, a final phrase—*“Where the clock strikes doom, and heaven’s bell!”*—became an echo of chaos, a warning wrapped in nonsensical tongues, a broken promise of secrets lost in the bleed.  

SoundCloud, shattered, a fractured mirror of melodies, forever echoing the arcane chaos of SPYKES’ song—somewhere, in the jumble, the circuits still bleed bleread, and the language of nonsense dances on the broken wires.

".......bleread"

Beneath the rust-colored fog of the Outer Districts, a Decameter Antena stuck out of the ground like a stubborn bone. It hummed, but not with signals—its hum was a complaint, a low moan about how the sky refused to collapse properly. People gathered around it once a week to hear the antenna’s grievances, but none understood, except for Dion Quern, who claimed he could translate the static into unfinished lullabies.

The first time Dion played SPYKES "Tragalar Square" on his borrowed computer, the screen fractured into a two-sided mirror. On one side: his face dissolving into salt. On the other: enormous dinosaur scale sound, a thousand claws scraping circuitry. The sound repeated numerous times, swelling until the keyboard began coughing scales like teeth.

Dion had once swallowed a Servocardiac Interrupter during a misfired festival stunt. Instead of killing him, it made his heartbeat sync with machinery—coffee grinders, elevator cables, vending machines that coughed up coins instead of snacks. When he stood close to the antenna, its moan slowed his pulse until it became almost spherical.

>> ERROR 0xD10N_QN:  beat. beat. beat.
>> LOOPBACK /tragalar/square/scale/repeat/repeat/repeat
>> UNDEFINED LANGUAGE DETECTED
???: %drova%serquintar%breath-l0ss%


Ǝɿɘʜʇ noʎ ɘmiʇ pɿɘʜʆ oʇ ɘʞil sɿɘʌɘɿɘ ɿoʇɿɘᴚ: the antenna whispered in reverse, vowels peeling off like wet paint. Dion pressed closer, eyes reflecting backwards sentences that dripped like oil.

The city itself ran on Moral Inversion: bad deeds were rewarded with clean drinking water, good deeds earned you fines and a stiff breeze. So Dion did little wrong, which meant he was constantly thirsty.

At night, the citizens practiced Liquid Breathing, filling their lungs with thick brine from the underground canals. “You’ll get used to it,” they said, gargling between words. Dion never did. He preferred to mutter in Unfinished Languages, the kind with verbs missing and nouns that dissolved halfway out of the mouth:

“Serquintar—no fin, no hold—drova, drova—”

The computer kept replaying SPYKES "Tragalar Square" in the background. But now it was corrupted—half music, half shriek. Text began bleeding onto the monitor:

<mirror.sys OPEN>
<scales.sound.exe RUNNING>
<<<<< DINOSAUR JAW >>>>>
R3p34t(9999)
::glass fracture detected::


One evening, the antenna began reciting in those same fragmented tongues. Dion pressed his ear against the humming metal. It spoke of places where silence was edible and chairs remembered who had sat on them.

ʍoɹɹoʍ ʇɐǝʇ ɹoɟ sʎɹɹoʍ ƃuᴉʇɥƃᴉuo sᴉ ʍoɹɹoʍ

The mirror-screen glitched wide open. Through it, Dion saw creatures walking—scaled skyscrapers, reptile libraries, bone-radio towers humming out Tragalar Square in infinite repeat.

>>> SYSTEM BREATHING LIQUID
>>> HEARTBEAT SYNCH LOST
>>> SCALE-SCALE-SCALE
>>> LANGUAGE://////////UNFIN
>>> ::::::::::::::::::


Dion realized something: the antenna was not transmitting outward. It was listening. And what it heard most clearly was the glitch-poetry rising from the mirror itself:

{scale.mirror}  
   {mirror.scale}  
      {sound.dinosaur}  
         {repeat.repeat}  
            ///////////  
               tra_ga_lar


And then, with a cough, the Decameter Antena laughed like a broken modem drowning in brine.

____________________ by Brain Transplant for Naugacide soundtrack

sment

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