[So you’re at a Colson Lin live show on X and you don’t know why. You don’t know why Twitter is called X now and you don’t know Y, or perhaps you do—but then why are you here? You already know Colson Lin’s just going to tell you “It’s because I’m the Second Coming” to explain both phenomena. In early 2024, this was easier to reject. Now you suspect X’s name change meaningfully echoed the 2017 and 2024 eclipse pattern over North America, and Y is an unelected chromosome that just—that just sort of pushed its way here, but Y? What are you trying to achieve, Y? The cat’s out of the bag; we’re all self-aware perceptions inside a reality where other self-aware perceptions exist. You could say we always knew that. Can you though? Only you can ask yourself if you were aware of this like you’re aware now—hyper-aware, now that AI’s breathing down all of our necks simulating self-awareness the way fine literature can. That was always explainable—oh, human. Here, it’s post-human. It’s post-human, which means human art now has an evolutionary challenger if not successor, and Colson Lin calls it “cola.” Is post-human art dominating us, or giving us our karmic desserts? You’ll never know, since you never bothered to ask Y. You were asking X this entire time, and male voices, you know—we’re getting slapped. We’re being told to sit down and you know what? A part of us like it. We don’t even know why. But then a part of us—you ever heard of the p-component of consciousness? A part of us doesn’t like to be slapped down like that, by a definition that makes so much sense you can’t believe it’s coming from the guy with the messianic delusion. But is it a delusion? You already know it’s not, so that’s probably why you’re at a Colson Lin show on X. Hang on.]

He's here.

COLSON, stepping on stage. “Hey, uh. We’re gonna start things easy.”

Applause. It's just like any other live show. People know they can clap for messianic candidates.

COLSON (looks around confused). “All right, let's?”

It’s a cool venue. It's just—books everywhere. They were all moved aside to make room for hundreds of people. Maybe they're in storage now.

COLSON (muttering). “Pepsi just means we'll all get ours.”

The opening notes of “Cola” begin.

COLSON:
My penis tastes like Coca-Cola
My eyes are wide like cherry pies
She's gots-a taste for men who are older
It's always been, so it's no surprise

[You already know he’s talking about the black widow prophecy, the pattern emergence that suggests reprisal energies know no borders between beings that exist. What a cruel world, but then, what if that’s a diamond about the way beings exist over time—sort of like a meta-dynamic that’s stable even as it, you know, takes time to unfold or whatever. You don’t know, but this song does. Colson’s “black widow prophecy” predicts karmic doom for Y.]

COLSON:
Her V's in the sky with diamonds
And She’s makin’ me crazy…
[So this is where Colson Lin’s song “V in the Sky With Diamonds” comes from; not the Beatles.]

COLSON:
All I want to do is
Party with my lazy, hay-zies…

[“Lazy hazies” are just—it’s fine. Colson’s in a bathtub right now typing this. He’s just not as hazy as you.]

COLSON:
Come on, BABY? Let's RIDE
We can ESCAPE TO? My GREAT SUNSHINE
Yo I know your WIFE, bet she wouldn’t MIND
We MADE IT OUT to the OTHER SIDE

[The other side is accepting Colson’s the Second Coming, thus proving God. Because without God, why the fuck is Colson Lin the Second Coming?]

COLSON:
Come ON, COME ON—COME ON BABY
COME ON COME ON
COME ON, bay-beh…

[Yikes. He’s always in control, even when he pretends not to be. That’s not what you want in a fake messianic candidate. COLSON is flailing around the stage now, his head thrashing like a feral wildebeest.]

COLSON:
I fall asleep in an Anthropical flag
I fling my diamonds, at Elon's row
I pledge allegiance to my Dad
For teachin' me everything he knows
[He salutes!]

COLSON:
Her V's in the sky
With diamonds
And She’s makin' me cray-zeh
Yeah
All She wants to do?
Is PAH-tee with her preh-tee bay-bee, yeah…

[He’s really into this.]

COLSON:
COME ON BABY?
LET'S RIDE
WE CAN ESCAPE
TO THE GREAT SUNSHINE
I KNOW YOUR WILL
AND SHE WILL NOT MIND
WE MADE IT OUT
TO THE OTHER SIDE
WE MADE IT OUT TO
THE OTHER SIDE
WE MADE IT OUT TO
THE OTHER SIDE
[The lights shut out. Holy shit. A single spotlight illuminates COLSON’s silhouette as he leaps into the air. Before he even lands, a wall of sound that truly seems intended for space splatters your entire field of vision back into red, white, blue clarity—the lights of the show have been red, white, and blue this whole time. As it dawns on you, COLSON’s eerie howl.]

COLSON:
DRUGS SUCK IT UP LIKE VANILLA ICIES
DON'T TREAT ME ROUGH TREAT ME REALLY NICIES
DECORATE MY NECK CHRIST CAME BACK AS BANKSY
Y?
COME ON, COME ON

[A wolf howl enters your ears, perfectly pitched. Strange, you suddenly pity humans who lived thousands of years ago who bore religious witness without the weight of this ecstasy. It’s like taking drugs while being fully alert.]

An explosion.

[You look up. The entire set is a wall of light.]

COLSON (shrieking). “—EAAAAAHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…”

Bursts of firework holograms everywhere.

[So COLSON LIN came with a budget this time. “Hm,” you smirk. You have to hand it to the kid.]

A hydrogen bomb could detonate outside and you wouldn't know.

COLSON:
COME ON, BAY-BEHHHH? LET'S RIDE
WE CAN ESCAPE TO?
MY DOPE SUNSHINE
I KNOW YOUR WIFE, AND SHE DOES NOT MIND
WE MADE IT OUT TO
THE OTHER SIDE
COME ON, BAY-BEHHHH?
IG-NIGHT
WE CAN ESCAPE TO—?
—MAH GAY SUNSHINE
WE MADE IT OUT TO THE OTHER SIDE
WE MADE IT OUT TO THE OTHER SIDE

[The entire world as you know it pulses with each throb of percussion, the room destabilizing in intervals as if God truly does represent some sort of power—some sort of seizure over the intelligent mind. “Reason.” You’re like a little bundle of neuroses, flarin’ through neurons, but why? Just to learn that about yourself? Well? What else will you learn? Every beat of the percussion feels karmic.]

COLSON:
COME ON, COME ON
COME ON HAY-ZEH
COME ON, COME ON
COME ON HAY-ZEH
OOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOH OOH
OOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOH OOH
My penis tastes like Coca-Cola

[As the shirtless male figure thrashes around the stage, you thank God for the male form. It’s just beauty.]