I HAVE A GRAND THEORY OF MODERNITY AND HOW I CAN MAKE IT RIGHT! – yells a person from his open, third-floor window, inexpertly shaved and wearing his most sleep-deprived eyes. Our time is created by stories. We let ourselves be guided by stories, powered by stories, sated with stories, lulled by stories, confused by stories, divided by stories, enraged by stories, permeated by them, he yells.
Some words in simulation
When I woke up the other day I didn't get out of bed, which has been such hard work lately. (I blame the heavy snows.) Instead, I chose to stay under my covers, cozy and calm, and work the coming day's tasks through via simulation. I mean, I've so much practice with it, my mind … Continue reading Some words in simulation
How Humans Synthesize Their Cities
We humans in this city, we excrete houses. Our city and others like it are giant stromatolite fields. We synthesize solid minerals the way arthropods synthesize shellstuff, only our digestion systems are on the outside. Many of the materials would be poisonous, you see, allowed into our own bodies. So, we build external alimentary tracts for ourselves. Stone cutters for teeth. Concrete blenders for guts. Components for these parts are, in turn, excreted from simpler organs that are also external.
All of history (nearly)
He died and was born in the same year, and between birth and death came close to seeing all human history. Or so it is thought.
The Sameness
A letter and a warning to you, the reader, from someone far into a supremely tedious future.
The Doomsday Plot (imaginary conversation)
The fourth and final part in a series about the deathbed regrets of a person with the dead man's switch to a doomsday device implanted in their brain.
The Things That Make Sense
"It’s as if certain things only make sense in hiding. It takes place in secret sense factories, where all the components of sense are imported in the night. While we dream."
The Doomsday Plot (the possible fate of my body)
Part three of an inner monologue by narrator who is presumably kept alive and conscious, but cut off from both sensory input and motor function, because they have an implant in their brain that will activate a doomsday device the moment they die.
My Public Persona Speaks For Himself
I wish more people would acknowledge my existence, says someone who is not the author of this text; the difference is essential (as in: An essentialist view on the individual,) though, one could also call it crucial (as in: Excruciating.)
The Doomsday Plot (Probabilities)
They must have brought me to the brink of death, then kept me there. I can only assume they must have done something surgical to my spinal and cranial nerves, because I have no access to any function of my body, sensory nor motor. Or else the afterlife always looked like this.
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