enigma

It was a question of touch and light. I was unaware at first, or perhaps absentmindedly disregarding the fact that I did feel something brush against my leg as I was in Downtime. The darkness too, was contaminated, broken by a rather subdued milky light that seemed to strobe over my eyelids. Was it warm this light or was the brushing against my leg where I felt the warmth? As both were unusual and simultaneous I surmised that they were of the same origin. The brushing continued however faintly and I confess that it felt good. I liked it. I felt for sure now the warmth coming from the brushing, wiping. So warm it was, I urinated a steady stream of relief, pleasure I am not entirely sure of the difference only that I wanted the brushing to continue and I felt my face beaming in the strange opaque glow. Yes it too was warm like a bath and it was only at this point that I became aware of the fact that I myself was beaming, smiling stretching my lips without understanding, caring or knowing why. It was beautiful. This was beautiful. And then the darkness shrouded my eyes and the coolness of the circular air returned and I must have gone back to sleep.

coagulated curdled fat of fog

My plastic bags full of cattail pollen are covered with moisture. This year has been fat. Over the shoulder the bags go and I head off to the Flats. Wandering alone about the back woods with artifact is downright mordacious. Anyone could jump me. I travel early in the morning.

The fog lingers. Before we used to get snow. Regina told me. The snow would be sometimes soft and plush sometimes hard lustrous burnished and sharp. Regina said it made great insulation and reflected the sun's rays. She said that it got so bright that your eyes would hurt from the squinting. Can't see far now. Periodically I hear the screak of birds above. They sound so close I think if I was just a bit taller I could stretch my neck and my head could protrude on the other side and I would be able to see great swells of cotton waft and wallow under the great blue atmosphere. But I am not taller and have succumbed to living under the influence.

Regina called them geese and said they are a flock. they fly together and sound like that to keep in contact. Formation flying flock in the coagulated curdled fat of fog. I wish we were flock. People would take turns taking care. We would be safe. In the great blue I imagine a perfect string of beads formed to the letter V gliding across the horizon of lamb's wool. The sun keeping the winter damp from touching bones.

Regina said they taste good, like squirrel. Only less strong. I would like to taste goose. I could harness a harpoon from a fat fog yarn and mount a white cotton colt and gallop over the white maelstrom of this scraggle of earth. I would gallop on my horse with my harpoon and I would catch me a goose and it would drop like a brick to the ground in the woods and when I would come back down from above the fantastic miasma it would be there waiting for me in the dark murky compost of wet mulch and I would skin it and clean it and dress it and make a fire like Regina showed me and I would roast it on a spit from a carefully selected branch itself cleaned and trimmed and it would be good and great and make me stronger.

epoxy we are

Navigating through the public unit listening to the Magic Flute. What beautiful music. How fortunate we are to have been able to have saved everything worthy as this. All historic records have been carefully archived into our system. All of us have access to anything we want, when we want, how we want. It's marvelous. I am grateful. I am grateful for my teachings, my body, my contribution. I am grateful for being linked indelibly through my veins to the very electrodes that connect all of this great infrastructure together. Epoxy, we are, inclusively making this hub our Home. I don't believe there has ever been a case of addiction. The system changed the tracking mechanism in the last generation. The censor reads our minutes, gives us vibration and automatically uncouples us from the motherhouse. Its induction appears to occur at the right time, that is, when our interests wane.

mutations, monsters and snakes

Planet peopled and frenzied. Exhausted by constant strain heaving malignant puss from sickness accretion. Chronic ice rain and infested mildewed spores oscillating between decay and life; human animals hunt, fuck and fight. Pluses and minuses, multiplying and dividing living integers scratching each other off of the page in complex equations of flesh and archaic genetically bound acts of transaction. There is no distinct threshold but a long hallway stretching with indeterminacy. Lines don't exist anymore; there is nothing left to cross.


I take care of myself. I need no one. I please myself as there is no one else worth pleasing left. I live amongst mutation, monsters and snakes.

Regina, 2049-

the cycle

The cycle always holds transformable units. That's what we are. Vehicles for the machine, perhaps but I couldn't imagine being happier. We are part of the big picture alright; dancing in infinite ephemera. Each stage is its own homeland. Both my parents have passed through Recycle. When our solvency depreciates to B level, we get evaluated through Group. Often it is ourselves the first to emphasize recycle. It's a simple ceremony after which, comes Detox, Limbo and Processing. Everything is used; the blood, the abats, skin, bones. What is not directly recycled is put into feed or composted.

Mazim, 2057-
Interior Sections
Side B12 Olofactory

food

I loved my mummy. When I died, she cut me up in strips and dried me out under the pallid and paltry sun. And then, hung over a wet spitting fire augmented my lightly marbled sacrament of self with a smoky ashen flavor. Bite by bite, bit by bit I nourish her body and I keep her whole. She carries me until the end of time.

Iris, 2072-2081