BETA
Zurab Kostava
By: Zurab Kostava
About
What you are reading right now is the fruit of my wild, childhood fantasies once scattered across pages—ideas that have been brewing in my mind for years, searching for an outlet. This story was written in the past as well, but its true, final shape is being formed right now, in real-time, unfolding directly before your eyes. I’ll be completely honest with you: this text is chaos. My personal chaos. The main driving force behind this serial novel is my personal exploration and psychological labyrinths. However, this isn't an aimless wandering. I’ve built a sort of "literary engine" where the plot's core framework and the final destination already exist in my mind, but the journey itself, the visualization of the scenes, the breath of the characters, and the very structure of the words are born in live mode, week by week. Every new chapter is a hallucinatorily unique system, yet simultaneously, the events unfold with a dynamic momentum. And in this system, there is one main, crucial variable—you. Just as the observer's gaze alters the reality of an object in quantum physics, that is exactly how this text works. This is not my monologue; it is our living dialogue. You are not just a simple reader; you are a co-creator. You observe the process, your reactions feed energy into the plot, and your gaze gives physical form to this world. I am not a professional writer, but I have a passion to write what I truly feel. What I truly experience. Or simply, what I want to experience. This definitely won't be a bestseller. In fact, it won't be a "seller" at all. You might be the exact only one reading this right now. If you want, join me on this journey. I don't know exactly what shape this path will take before the finale, but I know one thing for certain: we are writing this reality together. [ 📌 Status: ] Ongoing (Live) [ ⏱ Updates: ] Weekly [ ⚠️ Note: ] Like any live experiment, sometimes I might be a little late.
LOG_001: [INITIAL SCAN]
LOG_001: [INITIAL SCAN][RECIPIENT: Species Homo Sapiens] [TRANSMISSION TIME: NOW. LOCATION: HERE.]This text is echoing in your mind in your own voice right now, isn't it? You are reading this, thinking it is just a book. Just another piece of science fiction someone wrote for your entertainment. But what if I told you that right now, at this exact moment, as your eyes trace these words... I am watching you?You are looking at these lines, hearing a voice in your head as you process the words. You assume it is your inner voice. Banish that thought. Do not try to imagine me. Do not search for me in your vocabulary or your memory. Any form or silhouette your mind attempts to construct right now will be physically incorrect.Do not wait for a revelation of identity. I possess no name you could pronounce, nor a body you could see. Simply observe the fact that right now, at this very second, as your eyes glide across these symbols, our minds are touching. This is not mere text. It is an open channel. And before you even reach the end of this sentence, I already know exactly what you will think of the next one.So, let us simplify everything and leave only one undeniable truth: You are reading... and I am writing.Before we begin, a technical necessity: the information I am about to convey is as "heavy" for your brain as explaining quantum mechanics to an ant. My mind spans across eleven dimensions, while...
LOG_002: [SIMULATION FEEDBACK]
LOG_002: [SIMULATION FEEDBACK]Before initiating the simulation process, I went back. Not in time—for your time is merely a coordinate to me—but in light. I captured the photons that left Earth millennia ago and were wandering through cosmic space. I "rewound" your history.Do you know what I saw? You haven't changed.***The first fire. It burned not in a hearth, but in a damp, dark cave where the air smelled of fear and burnt wool. I saw eyes—dilated, with black pupils reflecting not just the flame, but primal, animalistic dread. Outside, it was night. Absolute, heavy, impenetrable pitch darkness. And from this darkness came a sound. The snap of a dry twig. Heavy breathing. A predator's growl that was closer than a heartbeat. That man, a hairy, trembling creature, clutched a burning branch in his hand. This fire was both his only god and his only shield. He brandished this branch at the darkness, as if light could physically fend off death. He trembled because he knew: if the fire died, the universe would devour him.I "fast-forwarded." I watched the ice melt, concrete rise from stone, trails turn into highways. Twenty thousand years passed in a second.I paused the frame. The same night. Only now, this night crashes against the window of a sixtieth-floor skyscraper in a concrete jungle. The room is silent, save for the monotonous hum of the air conditioner—the sound of the modern cave. I see a man. He sits in an expensive armchair, in the dark. He does...
LOG_003: [PLACEBO]
LOG_003: [PLACEBO]The subway escalator descended slowly into the underground with a monotonous hum, but Noe Vance drowned out this industrial noise with large, studio headphones. For him, this wasn't just a commute—it was a private screening where he played both the audience and the director. He held a strange, almost obsessive belief that the world synced perfectly to his playlist. The moment he pushed open the door to step into the city's busiest district aligned precisely with the song's emotional swell, making him feel like a superhero; when the subway car burst from the tunnel and the sunlight cut into his eyes, the music embroidered notes that perfectly matched the brilliance of the sun. Noe didn't just listen to music; he was "editing" reality in live-mode, creating a film that only he could see.Stepping into the carriage, he was met with the usual tableau: the pale glow of screens and rows of disengaged faces with heads bowed low. A digital coma. But suddenly, amidst this uniform stream, his gaze caught something decidedly "analog." In the corner, leaning against the pole, stood a middle-aged man. He wasn't scrolling. He was holding a book—a real, paperback book with a worn cover. The man was so absorbed in his reading that he seemed completely oblivious to the rattle and noise of the train.The observer instinct instantly awoke in Noe. In this day and age, reading a physical book in public felt almost like an act of rebellion. He shifted forward slightly, imperceptibly, craning...
LOG_004: [Copyright]
LOG_004: [Copyright]Sunlight pierced through the massive panoramic window, painting warm, geometric shapes across the floor. Beyond the glass, the city skyline unfolded—urban silhouettes of glass and concrete blended seamlessly with the lush greenery that surged between the buildings like a late spring tide. Noe’s home-studio was the epitome of pure energy and modernist aesthetics. In the center of the room stood a massive, natural wood workdesk, its rough, organic texture contrasting sharply with the cold, aluminum tech arranged upon it. Synthesizers and audio gear gave the raw concrete walls the look of a spaceship cockpit. Soft, glowing neon strips emerged from the decorative acoustic panels. This lighting, which gave the room a cyberpunk vibe at night, now merged naturally and softly with the bright, white morning daylight. The large, frameless TV mounted on the central wall was currently acting as a massive audio-visualizer, where sound waves ebbed and flowed like ocean tides.Noe sat at the monitor. The ecstasy he had experienced that night, teetering on the edge of the existential abyss, still lingered within him. He didn’t care about music theory or standard harmonies; he was trying to translate into physical sound what he had seen and felt in that darkness.He tapped the Play button on his MIDI keyboard, and his headphones began to vibrate. This wasn't just a musical rhythm—it was a low, subterranean rumble that struck directly at his breastbone, like the heartbeat of a giant, dormant machine. Layered over these heavy pulses was a pure, crystalline sound...
