The End of the World
  • The End of the World
  • Michael McCann
  • Deus Ex: Human Revolution

The End of the World

Original composition and samples by Michael McCann. Mixed into a 11:20 extension by yours truly (

Much like the Tai Yong Medical Suite, this mix is different in that it involves a lot of tracks to make the whole. In this case, the 9 tracks that make up the entirety of Panchaea have been woven to tell a story.

The tracks are Entering Panchaea, Panchaea Hanger (Ambient/Stress), Panchaea Tower (Ambient/Stress), Panchaea Ring (Ambient/Stress), and Panchaea Machinery (Ambient/Stress). The whole piece basically leads up to my first mix, HYRON, quite nicely. 

I really enjoy the various tracks McCann wrote for Panchaea. It really gives you a sense of being trapped, alone, before evolving into a much more sinister feel as the area “awakens” with the crazed civilians. It’s the kind of creepy I like. 

Other DXHR Mixes: HYRONMilwaukee JunctionPicusThe HiveBeneath HengshaSNAKEBreaking & EnteringEntering & BreakingOutside FEMATai Yong Medical SuiteAlice Garden Pods SlaughterMANTIS, BULL

Missing, presumed dead.

Official reports came through after a week of searching through the Arctic wreckage of Panchaea. Pritchard remembered it all so vividly. He remembered David Sarif on a gurney - in critical condition, but with some of the world’s best doctors at his behest. He remembered Malik, pulling off her helmet to reveal a face streaked in blood dirt and tears, pressing her face against his shoulder as sobs violently wracked her body. Standing with her, holding hands, watching the survivors filter in, shell-shocked crowds shuffling weakly in unison. Jensen wasn’t there. He was never there - not in the first wave, or the second, or the third. He’d never felt anything like it before, what he felt when he first realized Jensen wasn’t coming back - despair crushing his lungs, squeezing his heart, leaving him winded and dizzy. He held it together for appearance’s sake. As soon as he was alone, he cried.

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A Study in Synesthesia


There is irony here.
It’s implicit, in this attempt to evaluate what is inherently intimate,
What may not be interpreted by an incomer
At least, not interpreted well.
Pale shimmers of syllables seen solely by one;
A brilliant idea, or ill-conceived inanity?


God, I want it, but it’s quelled.
Amidst fearful fidgets, persnickety pizzazz
Quintessential, yes, but juxtaposed.
Against hoards of disentangled dissidents.
Frippery and fop, freewheeling, fun.
Frankly, I’m flummoxed.
By how perfectly poised, yet predisposed to disregard are my peers.
By how skittish, shrinking, shy am I.


Sordid scandals of silk and surmise
Sacrilegious sacrifice for a sumptuous surprise
Serenity? In this economy?
Superstition parts for sensation,
Stepping on cracks to satisfy the impulse.
In summary, my seraglio is in the summery.
Up on scaffoldings, in the sun,
A pastiche of sex and self-esteem,
Dangling snake-limbs for the sense, the stimulation.
A panchaea of superfluous satisfaction.


Metagenesis: the blooming backlash of the faint of heart
Hesitation in flora to devote to a doctrine,
Magnifying (magnificently!) by means of generational flipping and flopping.
How gloriously the most gentle of germs dedicates genome to doubt,
Dividing and multiplying parthenogenetically on Mondays,
and from gametes to growth by Friday.


Restrained alliteration makes way for rhetorical rambunctiousness.
Unravel the riddle, and what do we uncover?
That the act isn’t yet up.
We revel in ambiguity, the rabble in uncertainty,
As the ragtag rapscallions we
Resurrect antediluvian arts for your amusement.
Appreciate it yet?
Rather rest by rivers, riparian rippling?
Or adopt with us the absurd?


Your lachrymose limbs, broken and lacking,
Occupy worlds invisible, in which licentious bacteria breathe.
Bioluminescence blooms in our veins,
Lives of vivacity and vigor live within our bones.
Our blood once lured beasts obsolete,
Orchestrated opulence in vessels of power.
Our molecules occurred at the beginning of the world,
And will leave only at its last word.


This nacreous kind of violence–
Tantalizing treacle turning noxious on the tongue
Never to be noticed, not truly, not in time
Till chamberlains turn to a torrid cacophony of venom.
It is kismet for those to turn to cinders,
Once verbalized complaints are created,
But temper is tricky, and conduct, all too commonplace
To take note of these contrived corpses.


Understanding, uncommon, unassuming
An erstwhile umbrella, under which you may harbour,
Under which you may rest.
An effervescent doze.
Anon, a fortress, for the meek for a week.
Protected from misanthropes until the end.


An instance of wake within lethargy
Iridescence on the edges of life, isolated not from life or limb entirely.
Weaving, waving, etching imagination onto sentience, illumination onto the veil
An invented impression interrupted by lucidity
Lucidity injected with a wistful wish


Zigzagging betwixt void and zenyth
Words omitted to the zenzizenzizenzic
Zealots implore: