rating: +97+x

Item #: SCP-4923

Object Class: Keter… or Thaumiel, depending on perspective.

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-4923 is to be maintained in a self-referential conceptual maintenance loop of its own design. (Alabaster couldn't hold it - gypsum blood, friends, gypsum blood.) The Foundation's collection of SCP-4923 are kept in several thousand buckets, which are available on request or for taxation purposes. Morally, SCP-4923 is to be kept in the hearts and minds of Surrealistics personnel at all times.

As such, the reprehensibility of personnel who interact with SCP-4923 is paramount. The self-referential nature of its self-referential nature, being self-referential, should be denatured as frequently as possible. Being alabaster, it is of course difficult to isolate its proteins - though our surrealists have found a whey.

Personnel investigating SCP-4923 must undergo daily radiological examinations of the skull. Should an additional instance of SCP-4923 be discovered therein, it should be immediately excised from the noggin and added to the buckets.

Forgive us this levity, lad or luddite - you'll understand it later. Probably. If you're paying attention. If it's too late, though, you'll think we're batfuck insane.

Description: SCP-4923 is a frankly fantastic collection of approximately one hundred and twenty billion corpora arenacea of human make. Individual instances of SCP-4923 are semantically variant and contradictory, making direct and/or/if formal referential styles totally useless. Indeed, attempts to directly describe SCP-4923 in a proper fashion, or one that matches sensicality too well, messes with the neurons and screws you up a tad. This is why most of this documentation is contradictory - though we speaketh madness, there be a method in it.

Let's put it like this, without the italics: inside your skull, there's a tiny little blob called the epiphysis cerebri, and over time, it slowly turns to stone. This is a process which kills you, or a part of you. It's a curse we got from a long time ago, when we pissed off one of the more evil gods, probably. There might be some books around it, but they make even less sense than this - and if you can even remotely understand them, then you won't be able to make words any more to tell the rest of us.

4923 acts as a semantic anchor of sorts, and it grounds you in the plane as you get older. (Grounded in a plane, get it?) However, this makes certain areas of research functionally impossible. To dance with ideas, you're not allowed to wear shoes. Some drugs can fight the things, if you're into that - they're called Agnostics. Amnestics make you forget, Mnestics make you remember, Agnostics make you doubt. (Similarly, Gnostics make you certain, but not necessarily correct.)

Let me try again. Imbibement of Agnostics results in semantic disassociation. Agnostics let you investigate things that are wrong. More particularly, they facilitate the employment of alternative logical paradigms - usually ones which, externally, seem nonsensical, because they are.

We're warriors of untruth.

The nice thing about living in untruth, however, is that you've a stronger power over the edges of gnostic truthful realities. If we make just the right things wrong, then rightness and logical truth takes up the vacuum left in the space, and in moves "reality" to occupy the space.

It's called Surrealistics, and fuck, everyone seems to hate us for it. We resist the anchors. Hell, to even really talk about the anchors, we need to talk like this! Which a few people hate - but back to the mindstones. They're toxic things, awful rock cancers that just grow and grow until you're firmly mired in this particular perceptual state.

If you're looking into it, you'll want a few more pineals grafted into you. Of course, if you want to be a scientist and not a surrealist, and look at "truth" instead, we can put a few more 4923 into your skull. If you're not using your pineal, we'll take it: you're closer to the ground, and we get ever higher.

As brevity is the soul of wit, I tell you: we are mad.

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