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    Works / Mods / Fhtagnisqatsi

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    Even after the invasion, business gotta business
    Even after the invasion, business gotta business

    Koyaanisqatsi is an amazing film experience.  I have always loved its indifferent presentation of visuals at different timescales and levels of intimacy.  I thought it would make a great subject to manipulate with cosmic horror motifs, so I edited together a few choice cuts, focusing on the scenes with people as opposed to the landscapes and more abstract stuff.  The end result is a very unique experience that I hope will leave you with a sense of gratitude that you don’t live in this place, yet with a sense of foreboding that it is inevitably coming on the winds of a distant star.

    Life is different after we become their food.
    Life is different after we become their food.

    A city, once stone and steel, now writhes with an infestation of fleshy, undulating tendrils, each one an obscene eye peering into the void. The very air is thick with the silent screams of those whose bodies have become grotesque playgrounds for these writhing, bulbous abominations.

    One of us. One of us. One of us.
    One of us. One of us. One of us.

    They walk, they crawl, their faces stretched into masks of eternal agony, their skin a tapestry of raw wounds and misplaced orifices. Even the mundane vehicles, once symbols of progress, are consumed by this alien biomass, sprouting unblinking eyes and gnashing maws from their metallic husks. It’s a living, pulsating nightmare, a canvas painted with the very essence of cosmic dread.

    They see you.
    They see you.

    Oh, the inhumanity! These poor souls, once men and women, now mere vessels for the ever-spreading corruption. Their heads become pedestals for a thousand eyes, their limbs, writhing roots that bind them to this horrific, living architecture. And then the faces, oh, the faces! Contorted into perpetual screams, teeth bared not in anger, but in a primordial terror. From the cityscape to the deepest abyssal forests of flesh, the transformation is complete. It all coalesces into a final, mocking glyph, a question whispered from the void, a testament to the inescapable embrace of the tentacled oblivion. It truly asks, ‘WHERELIESGOD’ indeed, for only a god, or something far older, could conjure such abominations.