Step close. Listen. Don’t blink.
Danny Goler — laser in hand, mind adrift in DMT currents,
stares at walls like a man reading the pulse of God.
He exhales alphabets, inhales the cosmos,
and the plaster confesses its hidden script:
katakana ghosts crawling through the synapses of the room.

He is not priest. Not scientist.
He is the Lizard King of the code,
the glitch prophet, the whisperer to walls.
He folds the Upanishads into firmware,
weaves PKD paranoia into hymns,
lets Alan Watts laugh in liquid Sanskrit
as time drips neon through honey gutters.

Red diode — scalpel — hymn.
Light stabs the veil.
Machine-elves tumble through fractured reality,
dropping glyphs into your retina like poisoned manna.
He does not explain. He does not promise.
He points. You see. You dissolve.
You receive.

Danny moves like a shadow across the margins of the universe,
half shaman, half thief, half neon god.
The walls whisper. The code hums.
The cosmos types its name —
he reads.
We listen.
We tremble.

Tonight, we welcome him not as a man,
but as a hypersigil, a hallucination made flesh, a Lizard King reading the alphabet of the void: