Interest in the engineering of cyber-physical information gathering and utilizing systems (CIGUS) has burgeoned in part due to the proliferation of wireless technology [1] and in part due to the growing demand for intelligible information. Such systems are complicated, with hierarchies of interfaces containing underlying complexity. They often involve distributed network sensors. The configuration can be
dynamic, static and adaptive. Increasingly they involve real time collaboration among agents of varying degrees of autonomy. The
interface of high yield systems often hides underlying subsystem complexity which pose new challenges to systems engineering[2].
Systems engineers are expected to provide a common level of communication amongst the domains of expertise that enable research,
development and design of the system to converge. As the domains become highly optimized, the language and models become so specialized that it becomes extremely difficult to communicate across the domains.

ghostdub. that’s what they all call me – i can’t even remember the name i had before. ghostdub.ghost.dub. because. because. because…i was dead. straight flatline. butbutbut.but Suzie…Suzie wouldn’t let them cut the line.screaming hysterical said she’d kill anyone who tried. Time…you… you lose it, over there. beyond the beyond. The Great Whatever. everything becomes like liquid. When the marbles finally returned they told me that I’d been gone 16 minutes. Guaranteed brain death. Youre produce.
but then i came back. They think… was it me? or just an echo? a dub? it stuck. what came back wasn’t what left, they say. corrupted.decompression error perhaps. They tied me up for my own protection. maybe theirs. i was in that place for quite a long time. halfmad. half here half there. Frankly, I’m still not really here.
at first they wouldn’t let me dive. said i might not come back at all. but i snuck it. it actually made me better…like i needed to dive to feel whole. Now i’m really only half here – constant transmission. i have someone to keep an eye on me. Whilst gone they say I got into mischief. i don’t remember.
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. 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.

th Shimmrn liht is a distnt figmnt

– th wy it refracts n th sufce, formng nto mcrocsmic
rck pools ov th otsd – tht of strw mn nd cly ft. Petit
bourgoise infidelities & papier-mâché identity.
Ths trnsgrssons ar nly evr gnst th self.
Nietche wld hav a conniption fit.
Now has lost all meaning
holofractual memory has done away with the present tense
reduced it to a random access montage.
Felt but not know.
Seen but not sought.
When the whole can be reconstituted from but crumbs
mortality becomes the punchline of a racist joke.
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.