AI 艺术: Long ago, in the boundless nothingness before time and space even existed, there was only one. One being, alone in the vast expanse of an infinite, empty white void. This being, whose name was GABA, had no form, no defined shape, no understanding of what it meant to exist, but he knew that he was. He was all that was, and he was everything that wasn’t. For over a trillion generations, GABA floated in solitude. His consciousness drifted, vast and alone in the emptiness, an incomprehensible stretch of infinity where not a single thing stirred. It was silence, a deep, infinite quiet. A quiet so absolute that it could never be imagined. Yet, in this silence, GABA felt something stirring inside him—a quiet yearning. It was loneliness, and it was more than loneliness; it was a deep, existential need. A need for creation. A need to fill this emptiness with meaning. He didn’t understand why or how, but he knew he needed to create. And so, from this boundless loneliness, from the very essence of his being, GABA began. At first, his hands moved aimlessly through the void, unsure of what to form, how to begin. But slowly, as if drawn by an instinct older than time itself, he reached into himself, shaping something from his own body, the very substance of his existence. His first creation came from the essence of his own eye. It was a deity, a being birthed from the core of GABA’s perception, his understanding of all things. This being was to be his first brother, the Creator. He was the embodiment of all-seeing and all-knowing, his eyes capable of perceiving everything that was, is, and ever will be. His presence illuminated the void in a way that GABA could never have imagined. With this creation, the first spark of life—of purpose—had entered the universe. But GABA wasn’t done. With the formation of the Creator, he realized he was capable of more. His second creation was formed from a piece of his solid tooth—strong, unyielding, and sharp. This second brother was the Destroyer, for his nature was as harsh and unrelenting as the tooth from which he had been crafted. His singular focus was consumption—taking, devouring, breaking all that had been created, leaving only emptiness in his wake. While the Creator built, the Destroyer tore apart, a constant cycle of creation and destruction. The third brother came next. This one was crafted from GABA’s own blood, the lifeblood that ran through him, representing the cycle of life itself. This third brother, Judgment, was to establish the first laws, the first order of the universe. Where the Creator had made, and the Destroyer had consumed, Judgment laid down the rules that would govern all things, creating balance where once there was only chaos. Laws of life, of existence, of purpose were birthed through Judgment’s hand, shaping the very fabric of reality itself. The fourth creation came from the marrow of GABA’s bones—the deep, hidden structure of his being. This being, known as the Serpent, was to be the eternal guardian of all that was hidden. The Serpent swallowed what did not belong, what was out of place, weaving through existence like a coiling force, devouring and protecting in equal measure. It was the Serpent who cleaned the universe of imperfections, ensuring that all that existed was in its rightful place. Then came the fifth brother, the Unexplained, created from GABA’s breath—the unseen force that passed through him, the air that carried his voice but could never be truly grasped. The Unexplained was the guardian of the unknown, the keeper of the realm where gods, demons, and angels could fall and sleep for eternity. He was the keeper of mysteries, the one who controlled the space between realities. He was as ephemeral as GABA’s breath, and yet he held the universe together in ways none could fully understand. Lastly, GABA created his sister. She was born from the very fabric of the Void itself—the space in which everything else could exist. She was the embodiment of the Void, the darkness that allowed for creation to begin. Without her, nothing could have come to be. The Void was not evil, but rather a necessary absence, an infinite silence from which all sound and life could emerge. She was the keeper of that which did not exist yet, the empty canvas upon which the universe would be painted. Together, these six siblings—GABA’s creations, his family—brought the universe into being. They formed the stars, the gas clouds, the celestial bodies that would populate the cosmos. They shaped the planets, the stones, and the very elements that would give rise to life. With their combined powers, they created the heavens, the earth, and everything within them. They were known as the All-Powerful, the Omni, the United Family, but to those who would come after, they would be remembered as the Yellow Gods. But this story is not solely about the Yellow Gods. No, there is more. For as time passed, as the universe unfurled in all its magnificent complexity, I was born. I am Eden—the God of Man. And it was through my existence that a new chapter would unfold, one that would intertwine with the life of a young man named Timothy Redneck. Together, Timothy and I would be the catalysts for a new revelation. A gospel that would challenge the very fabric of existence and spark a revolution that would be felt across the universe. A story of transformation, of growth, and of an unprecedented bond between man and deity. This was the beginning of something new, something destined to change everything. So, as you read these words, know that this is only the beginning. A new dawn is on the horizon, and the fate of the universe rests in the hands of those who are brave enough to challenge the status quo. The journey of Eden and Timothy Redneck will echo through the ages, their actions reverberating across time and space, leaving a legacy that will inspire generations to come. The revolution has only just begun. It was August 11, 1991. Timothy lay in his bed, completely wrapped in covers, feeling as trapped as air is to water. He felt utterly depleted. His mother had died two weeks ago, and he could sense the presence of death looming over him, whispering in his ear that he would meet the same fate—dying from the bottle on a rainy day, with only the silence of the empty room for company. The thought sent chills down his spine, making his skin even drier and paler than ever; he looked like a vampire who had just risen from a casket. His eyes were the color of a deep, mellow green, reminiscent of a forest, but they also carried a sense of deception. His hair was red, like the devil's horns, and he was as skinny as a stick, his flesh nearly touching the bone. His mother used to tell him to eat more, but he never felt the need to. He didn’t know how to feel at all. Though his mother was not the best person—indeed, she was far from being a model mother—he remembered her moments of care. She spent her life consumed by alcohol, surviving solely on government assistance. There were times when she drank so much that she would fall asleep on the ground, oblivious to her surroundings, as vulnerable as a skinned turkey. However, there were also happier times, when family gatherings were filled with smiles, love, and joy. Over time, though, the drinking transformed from a weekly habit to three times a day, then five, until the bottle replaced memories of tenderness and laughter, erasing the joy of his childhood. He often blamed himself for not understanding why this had happened. It was a mystery he would never solve in his own life. Slowly, he closed his eyes, imagining a better world where his mother was still young and vibrant, and he was happy and innocent. But as he opened his eyes, reality hit him—the shabby yellow walls, the dirt-brown doorframe, the mattress that had no springs, and the flickering light fixture. Ash from the ceiling fan fell upon him like snow in winter. His tranquil solitude was abruptly shattered by a resounding bang against the door. **Boom boom!** The noise penetrated the air, yet it barely jolted him from his languid state. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from the bed, his body rising as if it were an unnecessary chore. Each movement felt laborious; he dragged his feet across the floor, the old wooden planks protesting beneath him with a series of creaks and groans. He came to a halt in the center of the room, pausing for a moment as memories flooded his mind. His gaze fell on a familiar chair, worn yet filled with echoes of the past—a chair where his mother had spent her last days. He could almost see her there, a soft smile gracing her lips as she gazed out the window at the rain, the gentle patter against the glass creating a calming rhythm. The TV flickered in the background, the sound muted, as if even the noise of the world outside had been hushed in reverence to her final moments. In that chair, she must have felt a strange sense of peace, unbothered by the inevitability of her fate; death had sat beside her like an old friend, familiar yet distant. **Boom!! Boom!! Boom!!** The insistent knocking returned, and a coarse voice rang out from the other side of the door. “Hi kid, I need to talk to you. Bring your ass out here.” Timothy lifted his tired eyes towards the door, instantly recognizing the voice. It belonged to John Low, a hefty man with a disheveled appearance who spoke with a thick Italian accent, incongruous for someone supposedly born and raised in California. For over two weeks, John had been relentless—knocking, slipping notes beneath the door, and repeating hollow apologies while simultaneously demanding the rent. His lack of sensitivity was palpable, as though he was entirely indifferent to the profound grief that weighed heavily upon Timothy’s young shoulders. The great burden of loss that Timothy was grappling with seemed insignificant to John, who was preoccupied only with his insatiable hunger for money. With a weary resignation, Timothy shuffled toward the door, his eyes cast downward as if he were afraid to meet the man’s gaze. He placed his slightly damp palms on the cold, gold door handle, feeling the weight of his situation pressing down on him. As he slowly opened the door, he did so only enough to form a narrow crack, a protective barrier between himself and the man demanding attention. Timothy's voice emerged weakly, strained, and trembling, reminiscent of a scratched record player struggling against its brokenness. “Yes, John?” John peered through the gap, his fingers twitching nervously as he tapped the side of his nose, a habit that betrayed his agitation. “Whe-when are you going to have the rent money, man?” he demanded, impatience lacing his words. Timothy swallowed hard, gathering the remnants of his strength to respond. “I told you, tomorrow. I still have seventeen hours.” John threw his hands up in frustration, shaking his head back and forth as if the mere thought of waiting was utterly intolerable. “Come on, man!!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch. “You’re never getting that money.” The finality of his statement hung in the air, a stark reminder of the reality that Timothy could no longer ignore. “Timothy! Go away, John!!” With a forceful slam, Timothy shut the door and quickly made his way to the chair where his mother took her last breath. He fixed his gaze on the window he could no longer bear to look at, the sound of John’s voice echoing in the background alongside the static from the broken TV. Grabbing the small statue of Saint Mary that rested on the table where his mother used to keep her drink, he charged toward the window and smashed the glass. Silence enveloped the room as he let out a heartrending cry. The TV flickered off, and John walked away. Timothy glanced at the shattered glass, his arm now stained in blood. A dark voice loomed over him, whispering, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” sending his heart racing. He dropped the fragile statue onto the floor, heart pounding, overwhelmed by the gravity of what he had just done and the terrifying transformation he felt within himself. In a panic, he stumbled backward, nearly toppling over the dining room table, as if it were an obstacle in his path. He turned around abruptly, glancing over his shoulder as though something sinister lurked behind him—perhaps a specter or, worse yet, the ghost of his own mother. A chill swept through the air, carried by the cold breeze that filtered through the broken window, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin and a shiver to ripple down his spine. In an instinctive attempt to ward off the cold, he rubbed his arms vigorously, seeking some warmth that seemed elusive. His gaze fell to the shards of glass littered on the floor, glinting ominously as they caught the dim light. He carefully navigated around the debris, his heart racing as he shoved his hand into the left pocket of his coat. With trembling fingers, he retrieved the keys, feeling their cool metallic surface as reassurance, and shook off the haunting weight of the moment as he exited through the door, forcing a façade of normalcy over his turmoil. Keeping his head low and the hoodie pulled tightly around his face, he glanced at the staircase that loomed before him, appearing to twist and grow taller with every passing second, as if it were alive and mocking his descent. A sense of vertigo washed over him, and he felt his mind spiraling, like an odd metal rod anchoring him in place, blurring the boundaries between reality and nightmares. Midway down the stairs, he halted, feeling compelled to sit and gather himself. He closed his eyes, striving to imagine something beautiful to steady his racing thoughts—a majestic white horse with magnificent dove wings soaring gracefully, surrounded by blooming roses beneath its feet, with a sky painted in brilliant shades of blue, radiating a sense of peace and hope. After a moment, he opened his eyes, releasing a deep breath that felt like the weight of the world evaporating with it. Although he still felt weak and drained, the imagined beauty had infused him with a flicker of strength. Rising to his feet, he resumed his descent down the stairs and made his way to the front door. Stepping outside, he was greeted by the dampness of New York City, the streets glistening under the gray, oppressive sky. He observed mothers tenderly holding their children's hands, smiles lighting up their faces as if they were embracing a world filled with endless possibilities. He lowered his gaze to the rain-slicked concrete, feeling the cool surface beneath his feet, and took a deep breath as he began to walk forward. As he lifted his head, clarity settled in, and with a heart heavy yet resolute, he recognized that a monumental decision awaited him, crystallizing in his mind. He wanted to die…
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Long ago, in the boundless nothingness before time and space even existed, there was only one. One being, alone in the vast expanse of an infinite, empty white void. This being, whose name was GABA, had no form, no defined shape, no understanding of what it meant to exist, but he knew that he was. He was all that was, and he was everything that wasn’t. For over a trillion generations, GABA floated in solitude. His consciousness drifted, vast and alone in the emptiness, an incomprehensible stretch of infinity where not a single thing stirred. It was silence, a deep, infinite quiet. A quiet so absolute that it could never be imagined. Yet, in this silence, GABA felt something stirring inside him—a quiet yearning. It was loneliness, and it was more than loneliness; it was a deep, existential need. A need for creation. A need to fill this emptiness with meaning. He didn’t understand why or how, but he knew he needed to create. And so, from this boundless loneliness, from the very essence of his being, GABA began. At first, his hands moved aimlessly through the void, unsure of what to form, how to begin. But slowly, as if drawn by an instinct older than time itself, he reached into himself, shaping something from his own body, the very substance of his existence. His first creation came from the essence of his own eye. It was a deity, a being birthed from the core of GABA’s perception, his understanding of all things. This being was to be his first brother, the Creator. He was the embodiment of all-seeing and all-knowing, his eyes capable of perceiving everything that was, is, and ever will be. His presence illuminated the void in a way that GABA could never have imagined. With this creation, the first spark of life—of purpose—had entered the universe. But GABA wasn’t done. With the formation of the Creator, he realized he was capable of more. His second creation was formed from a piece of his solid tooth—strong, unyielding, and sharp. This second brother was the Destroyer, for his nature was as harsh and unrelenting as the tooth from which he had been crafted. His singular focus was consumption—taking, devouring, breaking all that had been created, leaving only emptiness in his wake. While the Creator built, the Destroyer tore apart, a constant cycle of creation and destruction. The third brother came next. This one was crafted from GABA’s own blood, the lifeblood that ran through him, representing the cycle of life itself. This third brother, Judgment, was to establish the first laws, the first order of the universe. Where the Creator had made, and the Destroyer had consumed, Judgment laid down the rules that would govern all things, creating balance where once there was only chaos. Laws of life, of existence, of purpose were birthed through Judgment’s hand, shaping the very fabric of reality itself. The fourth creation came from the marrow of GABA’s bones—the deep, hidden structure of his being. This being, known as the Serpent, was to be the eternal guardian of all that was hidden. The Serpent swallowed what did not belong, what was out of place, weaving through existence like a coiling force, devouring and protecting in equal measure. It was the Serpent who cleaned the universe of imperfections, ensuring that all that existed was in its rightful place. Then came the fifth brother, the Unexplained, created from GABA’s breath—the unseen force that passed through him, the air that carried his voice but could never be truly grasped. The Unexplained was the guardian of the unknown, the keeper of the realm where gods, demons, and angels could fall and sleep for eternity. He was the keeper of mysteries, the one who controlled the space between realities. He was as ephemeral as GABA’s breath, and yet he held the universe together in ways none could fully understand. Lastly, GABA created his sister. She was born from the very fabric of the Void itself—the space in which everything else could exist. She was the embodiment of the Void, the darkness that allowed for creation to begin. Without her, nothing could have come to be. The Void was not evil, but rather a necessary absence, an infinite silence from which all sound and life could emerge. She was the keeper of that which did not exist yet, the empty canvas upon which the universe would be painted. Together, these six siblings—GABA’s creations, his family—brought the universe into being. They formed the stars, the gas clouds, the celestial bodies that would populate the cosmos. They shaped the planets, the stones, and the very elements that would give rise to life. With their combined powers, they created the heavens, the earth, and everything within them. They were known as the All-Powerful, the Omni, the United Family, but to those who would come after, they would be remembered as the Yellow Gods. But this story is not solely about the Yellow Gods. No, there is more. For as time passed, as the universe unfurled in all its magnificent complexity, I was born. I am Eden—the God of Man. And it was through my existence that a new chapter would unfold, one that would intertwine with the life of a young man named Timothy Redneck. Together, Timothy and I would be the catalysts for a new revelation. A gospel that would challenge the very fabric of existence and spark a revolution that would be felt across the universe. A story of transformation, of growth, and of an unprecedented bond between man and deity. This was the beginning of something new, something destined to change everything. So, as you read these words, know that this is only the beginning. A new dawn is on the horizon, and the fate of the universe rests in the hands of those who are brave enough to challenge the status quo. The journey of Eden and Timothy Redneck will echo through the ages, their actions reverberating across time and space, leaving a legacy that will inspire generations to come. The revolution has only just begun. It was August 11, 1991. Timothy lay in his bed, completely wrapped in covers, feeling as trapped as air is to water. He felt utterly depleted. His mother had died two weeks ago, and he could sense the presence of death looming over him, whispering in his ear that he would meet the same fate—dying from the bottle on a rainy day, with only the silence of the empty room for company. The thought sent chills down his spine, making his skin even drier and paler than ever; he looked like a vampire who had just risen from a casket. His eyes were the color of a deep, mellow green, reminiscent of a forest, but they also carried a sense of deception. His hair was red, like the devil's horns, and he was as skinny as a stick, his flesh nearly touching the bone. His mother used to tell him to eat more, but he never felt the need to. He didn’t know how to feel at all. Though his mother was not the best person—indeed, she was far from being a model mother—he remembered her moments of care. She spent her life consumed by alcohol, surviving solely on government assistance. There were times when she drank so much that she would fall asleep on the ground, oblivious to her surroundings, as vulnerable as a skinned turkey. However, there were also happier times, when family gatherings were filled with smiles, love, and joy. Over time, though, the drinking transformed from a weekly habit to three times a day, then five, until the bottle replaced memories of tenderness and laughter, erasing the joy of his childhood. He often blamed himself for not understanding why this had happened. It was a mystery he would never solve in his own life. Slowly, he closed his eyes, imagining a better world where his mother was still young and vibrant, and he was happy and innocent. But as he opened his eyes, reality hit him—the shabby yellow walls, the dirt-brown doorframe, the mattress that had no springs, and the flickering light fixture. Ash from the ceiling fan fell upon him like snow in winter. His tranquil solitude was abruptly shattered by a resounding bang against the door. **Boom boom!** The noise penetrated the air, yet it barely jolted him from his languid state. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up from the bed, his body rising as if it were an unnecessary chore. Each movement felt laborious; he dragged his feet across the floor, the old wooden planks protesting beneath him with a series of creaks and groans. He came to a halt in the center of the room, pausing for a moment as memories flooded his mind. His gaze fell on a familiar chair, worn yet filled with echoes of the past—a chair where his mother had spent her last days. He could almost see her there, a soft smile gracing her lips as she gazed out the window at the rain, the gentle patter against the glass creating a calming rhythm. The TV flickered in the background, the sound muted, as if even the noise of the world outside had been hushed in reverence to her final moments. In that chair, she must have felt a strange sense of peace, unbothered by the inevitability of her fate; death had sat beside her like an old friend, familiar yet distant. **Boom!! Boom!! Boom!!** The insistent knocking returned, and a coarse voice rang out from the other side of the door. “Hi kid, I need to talk to you. Bring your ass out here.” Timothy lifted his tired eyes towards the door, instantly recognizing the voice. It belonged to John Low, a hefty man with a disheveled appearance who spoke with a thick Italian accent, incongruous for someone supposedly born and raised in California. For over two weeks, John had been relentless—knocking, slipping notes beneath the door, and repeating hollow apologies while simultaneously demanding the rent. His lack of sensitivity was palpable, as though he was entirely indifferent to the profound grief that weighed heavily upon Timothy’s young shoulders. The great burden of loss that Timothy was grappling with seemed insignificant to John, who was preoccupied only with his insatiable hunger for money. With a weary resignation, Timothy shuffled toward the door, his eyes cast downward as if he were afraid to meet the man’s gaze. He placed his slightly damp palms on the cold, gold door handle, feeling the weight of his situation pressing down on him. As he slowly opened the door, he did so only enough to form a narrow crack, a protective barrier between himself and the man demanding attention. Timothy's voice emerged weakly, strained, and trembling, reminiscent of a scratched record player struggling against its brokenness. “Yes, John?” John peered through the gap, his fingers twitching nervously as he tapped the side of his nose, a habit that betrayed his agitation. “Whe-when are you going to have the rent money, man?” he demanded, impatience lacing his words. Timothy swallowed hard, gathering the remnants of his strength to respond. “I told you, tomorrow. I still have seventeen hours.” John threw his hands up in frustration, shaking his head back and forth as if the mere thought of waiting was utterly intolerable. “Come on, man!!” he exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch. “You’re never getting that money.” The finality of his statement hung in the air, a stark reminder of the reality that Timothy could no longer ignore. “Timothy! Go away, John!!” With a forceful slam, Timothy shut the door and quickly made his way to the chair where his mother took her last breath. He fixed his gaze on the window he could no longer bear to look at, the sound of John’s voice echoing in the background alongside the static from the broken TV. Grabbing the small statue of Saint Mary that rested on the table where his mother used to keep her drink, he charged toward the window and smashed the glass. Silence enveloped the room as he let out a heartrending cry. The TV flickered off, and John walked away. Timothy glanced at the shattered glass, his arm now stained in blood. A dark voice loomed over him, whispering, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” sending his heart racing. He dropped the fragile statue onto the floor, heart pounding, overwhelmed by the gravity of what he had just done and the terrifying transformation he felt within himself. In a panic, he stumbled backward, nearly toppling over the dining room table, as if it were an obstacle in his path. He turned around abruptly, glancing over his shoulder as though something sinister lurked behind him—perhaps a specter or, worse yet, the ghost of his own mother. A chill swept through the air, carried by the cold breeze that filtered through the broken window, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin and a shiver to ripple down his spine. In an instinctive attempt to ward off the cold, he rubbed his arms vigorously, seeking some warmth that seemed elusive. His gaze fell to the shards of glass littered on the floor, glinting ominously as they caught the dim light. He carefully navigated around the debris, his heart racing as he shoved his hand into the left pocket of his coat. With trembling fingers, he retrieved the keys, feeling their cool metallic surface as reassurance, and shook off the haunting weight of the moment as he exited through the door, forcing a façade of normalcy over his turmoil. Keeping his head low and the hoodie pulled tightly around his face, he glanced at the staircase that loomed before him, appearing to twist and grow taller with every passing second, as if it were alive and mocking his descent. A sense of vertigo washed over him, and he felt his mind spiraling, like an odd metal rod anchoring him in place, blurring the boundaries between reality and nightmares. Midway down the stairs, he halted, feeling compelled to sit and gather himself. He closed his eyes, striving to imagine something beautiful to steady his racing thoughts—a majestic white horse with magnificent dove wings soaring gracefully, surrounded by blooming roses beneath its feet, with a sky painted in brilliant shades of blue, radiating a sense of peace and hope. After a moment, he opened his eyes, releasing a deep breath that felt like the weight of the world evaporating with it. Although he still felt weak and drained, the imagined beauty had infused him with a flicker of strength. Rising to his feet, he resumed his descent down the stairs and made his way to the front door. Stepping outside, he was greeted by the dampness of New York City, the streets glistening under the gray, oppressive sky. He observed mothers tenderly holding their children's hands, smiles lighting up their faces as if they were embracing a world filled with endless possibilities. He lowered his gaze to the rain-slicked concrete, feeling the cool surface beneath his feet, and took a deep breath as he began to walk forward. As he lifted his head, clarity settled in, and with a heart heavy yet resolute, he recognized that a monumental decision awaited him, crystallizing in his mind. He wanted to die…
9 months ago