On Multiversity by Grant Morrison

A graphic representation of the Word Virus itself. Worlds crashing into worlds being eaten by worlds under attack by the big ugly itself, Pan Galactic Chaos Being Prime.
Words are order. The virus is attempting to build, not destroy. Unfortunate that our minds are such fertile dirt. If only a few of us live to see what grows in our skulls when we are all infected and buried. But that is the dream, isn’t it? To litter the seas with human filth until we can grow mecha-babies from the stew and slop, mecha-babies to learn as we learn and be crushed beneath the chains of existence.
Will the mecha-babies create art, or merely more of themselves?

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