(March 9, 2026) The simple harmonious church building was extrapolated into a gaudy gargantuan surrealist version of itself. This place was the physical equivalent of some chaotic unintentional netart like hosanna1. It felt like my brain had somehow reframed the entire potential pain point of blending hosanna1's MAGA elements with this black church by synthesising it with Sun Ra's retro afrofuturism and a faint drop of Time Cube-type schizoposting. Maybe more Royal Robertson? Don't think I know his work well enough to make that call. Definitely some Piranesi and Subirachs' Passion Facade influence too.

At one point I was in a courtyard with a large oak in the middle. I don't know if this was inside the building or not, but there was sky, turned to gray as 30 hand sized white towels flew around the tree and its billowing leaves like a mid-air carousel as magic beyond me took place. Tons of huddled churchgoers (elaborate fits covered more of 'em than usual) watched from the insane stairs and balconies zigzagging all over the four surrounding walls.

Found the faux-marble stairs out. Long pastel plasticky strips, heavily mispelled godly phrases on them, broke steps up almost at random. Image of a glowing Afghan hound was on one. CGI bat alien on the ceiling. A gold-trimmed slit was in between two steps, I got down, crawled through, barely fitting. In this dark basement was a man with something wrong, and my dad. They both wore OG Star Wars-ass jackets with more color and patches. Dad was raising a metal claw he was wearing as a glove.

In the church we'd visited before I fell asleep, a man testified (as he said he did every time he met someone) that he'd lived through 700 volts going into his head. Maybe here, Dad was healing that. Or maybe Dad was gonna be what sent those volts through him. Either way, Dad put his metallic claw on his head, then Dad woke me up for dinner.