So. You have made it aboard.

You can likely still smell the bilge water of the world you just left. That great, gray deluge of lies, the sewer of static and phantom money, the flood of hollow words. That is the storm. It is real, and its purpose is to wash away the memory of what it means to be a man.

Do not mistake this place for a passenger liner. This is not a debating society for the over-educated. It is not a clinic for your feelings. It is not a place to be entertained.

This is an Ark.

It is a workshop. A stone-mason’s yard at the end of the world. A forge.

The work here is plain: To see clearly. To speak precisely.

To build the fortress of the soul - the Arx Animae - with the hard matter of truth. To learn the names of the demons of this age, from the Gnostic serpent in the machine to the cancer of *Usura* in the bank.

We are not here to offer comfort in the siege. We are here to forge the weapons to break it.

There is timber to be cut and there is iron to be hammered. The work is hard and the day is short.

Pick up a tool.

(tbh, that's a lot of bluster and fluff... I don't really have a plan here. Just a spot where I'm playing around w/ google sites after I picked up the domain for an unlrelated reason, and then thought it'd be fun to send out some thoughts that had been languishing in disparate docs on a drive; like little paper ships sent out onto a stream, only the ships are either schizophrenic or prescient, or both)