Dimethyltryptamorphs — adventures in apocalyptic mythorealism
Every age ends. Every ending is an unveiling.
Apokalypsis means the lifting of a veil. Dimethyltryptamorphs is what happens when two homies yank that veil clean off the hinges and start broadcasting from the other side.
Cracked-open third eye, busted warp drive, zero chill. We pulling up on God, gnosis, prophets, angels, aliens, archons — then politics, tech, love, death and whatever else floats through the wormhole. It's not the myth instead of the real, fam. The myth is the real. Y'all just been reading it with the lights off.
Strap in. Mind the hyperspace potholes. Bring snacks for the archons.
First transmissions dropping soon. Stay locked in, starseed.
The main show is free for every soul on every planet.
But some conversations don't make it past customs. Early patrons get the backroom — the stuff we say when the mics are technically still on.
- Early accessEpisodes land in your ears before the rest of the galaxy.
- Behind the veilRaw, unedited sessions. The tangents that got cut for being too cosmic.
- Founding crewFirst wave on the manifest. Your name stays on the ship.