Space Dust Shamans
Some mistook them for Vampires. Maybe it was the matte-face and monochrome. Or their world-weary demeanour. But Vampires counted their life span in centuries and had the reference points to prove it. The protocol of dead empires lurked within their psyche. In their eyes you could see the reflection of cities razed, rebuilt and razed again. Now that mirrors no longer included silver in their manufacture, Vampires had become vain and pointlessly nostalgic. They were a walking time warp. Vampires thought the Space Dust Shamans uncultured. Space Dust Shamans became literally ill at the aesthetic of most vampires. Any affair between them quickly devolved into a tabloid nightmare. It had been tacitly agreed that they would never again attempt to mate. Let alone breed.
By contrast, Space Dust Shamans lived defiantly in the now. Even if they did want to recall – say – last week, they would be barely able to. Facial neurotoxin had crystallised their third eye and opened a new, previously unknown to even the sages of Atlantis, neural dimension. Other than Space Dust, they lived off bone broth and E.M.F.s, working in digital, fashion and the propaganda end of politics. But secretly they saw themselves as Karma Brokers.
Their relationship with Space Dust was, they insisted, entheogenic. They were able to commune with its spirit every bit as effectively as someone on ayahuasca seeing jaguar spirits. Only the Space Dust Shamans did not like dirt, bugs, leaves or the way that trees chattered all the damn time. Their sprites were city daemons and the messages came via sigils concealed in street graffiti. Sex was but an adjective, used to describe – say – the design of a new Porsche or table lamp. Dub-core grounded them. They were patiently waiting for Pluto in Aquarius.
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