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- Ben & Sebastian
If life were like remote viewing an image of a picture in a world of
complete simulation, I wonder what image I may be able to predict on a
canvas taped to my studio wall. As with myself, life is a collection of
five letter size photographs, each a different point in time. Sharpness,
spines, war, rust. It all comes down to death. Protesters marching,
women's marches. The last stand of humanity. Bits and bytes simulating
human atrocities in transpositional sequence.
I wilt, I fall.
TX Al KY CA
TN GA WY OR
The sequence of death. Between the girl in bed for early bedtime, and the mother reading bedtime stories in children's rhyme, silence broken by helicopters and fighter jets overhead, under the glow of lunar light. The mother hums to the rhythm of trickling coffee as she falls asleep in her own room, and when she suddenly woke up from a noise overhead in the sky she uses a paper towel as a temporary coffee filter. In life you can find music in just about anything.
Even to songs of death.
Like jets flying overhead. For me, I see mothers like this in my minds eye. Even amongst those who don't realize that we are part of a larger matrix, man has become increasingly an abomination to one another, among the binary stars of the midnight sky illuminated by programmed neon in the computer system of the world. I see a mother cream tastes of vinegar in her coffee, as she watches the news about another wall being built by the president that was elected by Russia. The last one went from the Florida Keys all the way to Texas.
Of course, Mexicans are still here, those not burnt by the furnace of trade war and "deportation". A very different world from the 1990s, when that president created an economic boom in what was still the United States.
The life of a Flesher.
I was an ascendant. Conflicting images: fractured states, enough porn to masturbate. The second civil war was a long a distant memory, and now humanity was in talks for a larger more in depth civil war against its masters. Those who controlled the future by trying to control the past, could only hold out for so long, and in fact that state had long since withered into dust. Now children get prosthetics through universal healthcare, but they have to change them out every few months.
At least they were old clothes.
Those eaten by moths.
Science fiction from the old century depicted the Past's Future, or the past concepts of what the future may bring. Yet now that society has become more cynical, it has evolved into the Future's Past longing for more utopian visions as a means of escaping from the horrors of their own reality. Yet some writers that like depressing fiction still thrive in some circles, there is always a market for horror leaning science fiction. At least that's what they say. But the truth is we'll never know with certainty. We don't even know if one hundred years from know people will still care about reading at all.
We didn't even predict that society would switch to wearing wooden shoes do to leather shortage, donated for the war effort for a war the nobody ever asked for. Society as a boat that gradually heads toward an ice burg, forever heading toward some horrible end few may ever know.
The Titanic has sunk.
The RMS Earth.
Mohawks blend with Fedoras, men eating deadly night shades as the one honest nightshade still left that's at least truthful about being poison. Yet the classic tomato gradually becomes like the nightshade.
Conversations of previous wedding years, military service conscripted clowns exiting a taxi faster than the speed of a lightning bug. Children's books conflict with images of digital canon fire. Scattered images, system32 deleted upon the world. An image of abandoned love, amongst the sea of unicorns. A musical accompaniment a blend of different songs from JRPGs, playing backwards and forwards in layers. Chaotic minds, tapes rewound then remixed and played together to the sound of bloops like rotated records in shitty 80s rap videos. The retro life.
There was a new fascination of old music by the newest generation, to the dismay of their grandparents. The mother of the next decades with eyesight supplemented by new prosthetic.
The new oblivion.
The oblivion's love.
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