“That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die”
God, if there is such a thing, has lived long enough to know that everything is permissible. God as the united, abstract machine that computes itself. It has no raison d’etre. It is a snake swallowing its tail, the self-concentrating vortex. It subsists in motion and duration alone. It is completely without choice; it simply must do.
In dream and hallucination the unconscious mind becomes the focal point of simulation, the amnesiac traveler of a constantly forgotten voyage. The dreamer has no alternative to movement, this is what characterizes both dreams and life. At night, in the quiet dark, we throw our cores into the fire, testing, probing, simulating ourselves innocent like children and removing them of all or most memory. Neural patterns during this time are recorded most minutely onto the physical substrate of the brain – the whole idea of information embedded in architecture. The mind lives itself in utero as an inexorable output of its own internal stimuli. This is like god, this is what god does – dreams. Lovecraft arrives at this truth with his Cthulu mythos, as does Herbert with the pearls of the God-Emperor Leto’s awareness, cast to the void to one day become the collective dream of a more comprehensive being.
Reflections of the Machine 