baby, baby, baby. I’m burning now… Can feel it beneath the skin, behind the eyes. like the blood is pressing against the surface. Like a kaleidoscope of impulses. Signal to noise nominal. cp -n paste. ctrl-alt-μ. I’m so much more aware. Like before was just halflife. The rate of decay is logarithmical. rithmical. rithm method. wowowow.fuck.me. Traversing. Traversing. spacecommalphaspherical. From this bubble to the neXT it nearly takes me over. Roger. Wilco. cross-transmission. Everything is leaking into one thing. A hyperstack. floating point. boiling point. A sublimation of the point of presence. If i kissed you like the world was about to end would you even notice?
That’s not me. I never did. Never ever. Where was I going to? The implant itches like fuck but i know I can’t, can’t scratch, shouldn’t even be here, really. Not this soon. 6 to 8 weeks the surgeon said. Specialist down razor lane. Did me a really good deal – 15% off in exchange for a penetration on a local rival. I did feel bad but those pennies aren’t making themselves out of the ether. thin net. No, that’s just in the interface. Those packets sure look gnarly up close. They’re too bright. Shimmering in resolution. I want to go closer but something holds me back. Not sure what. Just a feeling, right there in the spinal gap. Press return.
The magnetic fields that surround me tug achingly. In the flicker I can make them out… pale and liminal… just there on the edge. The urge to go over and give over to the plummeting is strong, almost insurmountable, but i can abide. i can abide. I knew the dangers, was ready for them, waiting like a fingertrap to conjure you away. ensare you. envelop you. I know a guy who went to far. Got too close. Couldn’t find his way back. You can still find his fingerprints in the far corners of the great whatever if you look hard enough. They say that his meat is locked up on a ward someplace, someplace safe, safe and far away from the great whatever.

But everyone knows you can’t turn your back on it. Not really. Not ever.

They cry wolf in the papers – call it a plague, call it an epidemic.. The papers. You have to laugh. Nobody sees paper much these days, so last year, not the last lifetime but the lifetime before last. Still the word sticks, like a vestigial tail, like a bad smell. Let your fingers do the walking, they know the way even if you don’t. Sometimes it’s hard to focus. So easy to become overwhelmed because it’s all there, all of it, every last crumb, waiting for you, calling to you. The distance is so great you can’t even hear yourself laughing, rocking back and forth like autism was still a thing.
Advertisements