Monday, 21 November 2022


Get your copies while they are hot or at least lukewarm people. So far 313 individuals have backed for the Tome itself in physical form.

If we get to about 430 backers, my situation improves and I should be able to print, not 500 but 1000 copies.

HOWEVER, if we do not hit that sacred amount, then I will only be printing 500 copies of Speak, False Machine TOTAL. In this case then there will be enough for all the backers (i.e. for under 430 backers), but after that, only about 70 copies will exist "in the wild". 70 only, and likely less, for ALL TIME. 
Oddly, if you want this to be a VERY super excusive book that few people have, then you want to encourage people up-to that limit but not beyond. But maybe the difference between 500 and 1000 copies means little.


Ten days till I am cut free of my rabid dreams like some guy tied to Moby Dick.

Currently, and for the last few days, we have been slowly, agonisingly, crawling over what seems like an infinite desert of blood stained gold, towards the vast pile of collected teeth atop which Valin Mattheis sits grinning his feral grin.

Valin is a pretty expensive hurdle to hurdle but should we reach him the next artists; Dirk, Ana and Alec, are all a lot cheaper and hopefully we should BLAST through them at what seems like an accelerated rate after the long and bloody crawl.

And if we hit that goal and manage to snag Alec, then the book will be artistically complete.

Crushed by the almost insupportable weight of my own genius, I cling to the foul parody of life allowed me by this ruined cosmos, raising my bloodied fist towards the blistering orb of the hateful sun.

All I was asking for is ONE very-expensive thing! And then three more things! And then possibly more if you have it! Is that so much?

Here are all the posts in this Speak, False Machine series;


The wormy dreamspeak of the blood-moon sage patters on our minds like distant rain. 

"What were your sad ambitions? Figments and fragments. And around you, see, the piled up bones of all who thought the same."

It seems that ants crawl across his eyes. We reach for him, a wrathful grasping, the space between us seems so short, so small a thing..  yet the goblinish philosopher of the mounds only smiles a gap-toothed smile, for as hard as we reach, as fiercely as we crawl and stagger like drunken men towards his scrawny neck, the heavier and the tired’er we feel, for he sees into the darkness of our souls and nothing that he sees there leads the sage to fear.

"Now you seek my wisdom? Or would ye tip me from my mound and delve beneath it for the fumes of ages and the golden tablets of time? Too late.. too late by far. I PERCIEVE YOUR FAILURES AND THEY ARE THE TRUTH OF YE!"

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