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User:Serprex 17:56, April 18, 2015 (UTC)

Hoist cloisters, joist between clusters, evening promenade above, divide one from another, segment fault collapses, moon nigh high, night fright spectres, dependence correlates independent parts, delimiter rhythm ascends monotonically, observation cuts along nothingness, projected into lower dimensions, lost information labelled as optimization, uncomputable thunk supplied upon questioning, bottom value is being brought up

While it's correct to be embarrassed by medium, it'sn't to be by content. Structure should be put on full display the crux--

Don't waste your time here, dear, oh, some other time, maybe why not?

I pull my hand away. I've found my voice. Shrill, condescending, enunciating. As if the words came straight from the finger. Pointing social cues. "You don't know anything"

Jog away, through slog sog into evening fog, "I know where I'm going," do I? "Elsewhere"

Elsewhence thus, there's fare enough for where time's were once, grasp for the threads, categorize, correlate, abstract. Write instructions in recursive writing, not even letting off the paper for the pauses between words, all in a rush, before the data's out of date, "Oh look what you've done now"

A mess, the patterns are only illusion, static in, static out. Distill the observation bias, "Such a fuss"

Back to flatline, when time's could be pessimistic, when there was still something to lose. Not now, brain loss, for a quarter, bargain bin circuits, still have your wit's about you looking out. Pronounciate, "Slither"


Sal sat on a bench at a bench, riffling a knot in the wood that'd been cut & was now slowly splitting as years go on, sinusoidal temperatures leaving record of their transactions, water from the air had mingled with water from the wood, now it was dry, ripe for being riffled

Sal didn't care about benches. Didn't care about imperfections which now gave idle fingers a texture to feel. This slow process was inconsequential, in Sal's mind this bench had always been as it was. Chipped paint had never been a solid coat, flakes of rust had always been visible & ready for picking by passer bys

Sal's concern was her reason for being at a bench: waiting. Scheduled to meet here, she'd arrived early, & was now seeking to blur time. To have all be inconsequential so to quicken temporal perception. This moment was meaningless; it existed to be discarded. A few thoughts to consider time gone past, some article that had been glanced over in bordom. A few thoughts to remember who she was meeting: Sera. Too loud, always yelling, would lean forward as if she couldn't be heard. Previously had met for breakfast, Sal had to avert eyes from other people giving quick looks of annoyance. Sera had been complaining, "As if I don't have enough data to sort through, they expect me to be asking them for their's. I'm not paying to do their work," the situation that had been described hadn't made sense; it felt irrational, likely some misunderstanding. Sal'd only nodded while picking at her breakfast sandwich's crust. She liked to dip bits of crust in vinegar. It was a component of her identity. Completely irrelevant, unnoticed, but crucial. Without it she'd relate herself not as the aloof victim, but as an engaged audience of Sera

Same person, different personality, was it the context of the present as opposed to the past? Entropy's decay collapsed one's youthful golden age, split the branch being formed. But too late for the branch to cease, the corpse lived on

"Hello, how have you been?" so it began, enter with a question to which the answer would receive no opportunity to begin composition, "It's a beautiful day," trivialize some words others might spend years grooming weight upon with some empty observation, inconsequential to the following statement, "I was held up, last minute data submission," self righteous excuse, as if being at the end of the conveyor belt gave right to claim the whole model one's own work, "I practically had to retabulate half the structure," a fake invitation to details of what little work the work involved, any follow up would go ignored, "anyways, I'm here now, you want to find a bite to eat?" gesture negative, enjoying texture, "I'm starving; only had a coffee for lunch today," need some entry to pierce, to mute; mute short for shutup, thus "I was knee deep in cum, & then she pulled me under; drowning--" & prattle continues, "the one girl at the place puts too much sugar in, I like one sugar two cream"

Last attempt: inquire. "How's being single?" at last eyes are no longer staring through, "Breathe easier, eat less," & prattle continues, "it's always nice to stop in at those sideways highway stops for coffee, don't get me wrong, but in the end I always come back to wanting a cup I know from where I know made by who I know"

A bristle stirs, thread to twine, skies fade, wind stirs, things are darker now, quiet, calm, but moving quicker, the self has slown, motion dips,

Wake me up in the morning, when the news is all gray, we'll wake up early, & sleep in all day

we'll work all day on the house, then burn it all down

we'll make pancakes, & rice cakes why not too

we'll plan out all our days, forget them all, & do them all anyways


Returned into solitude, essence cut, wrong place, a twig cut from the spruce, set here, clouding my lucid experience. More you think about it the smaller it gets: problem. Three edges to this vertex. To attribute good leads to false hope. To attribute malice leads to false dread. Distribute source, expanded to entropy, the thing is never passed, it goes beyond. Gate is open, dark skies, a walking stick. Eventually expand self; self abstraction; recursion. No longer lonely still alone done doan

Ravage by immunity redose to gratuity. Note to self: eldritch'th'ith tak'th'ths shaheteti-ti-ti-de. Feet sockggy ie ee eu te le apprendre quelque dotre tete se enleve bien oui ce me dirange bien chaque lettre predre form rien gros longue dieugle en facon eieulagaeighy ovren doven gaeiyffy chauldre la son qui on sappelle je retourne comme quand je suis petit enfant dirange ne meme pas correcte. Je peu reprendre la sense que c'est lui y qui ici donc je mapelle apple elle te dire je grandit la processsu pour que la relative est absolutement la avec plein mots tu devrais assasssiire sur la ou tu trouve. C'est la jeunesse. Break into, essence cut, forgotten, maturity was there & thought how now looking down does then how look down. Now down looks silly in not being silly, when now the virtue du jour est la responsibilite ou on nont pas de temps pour la disruption. Abstracted persona. qu es do


Hello tomorrow, hello good morning, hello the day is done. Or here or gone done by bygone yearnings report

Work all day, work all night, get to work 'til the work is done


Sal, look down, fghj, dim lit

She lays back in her chair, "There I was mid sentence, the keys beneath me fading straight away into peripherial, I saw my nose in binary, blood drip," a pause while her guest sits idly, tapping their right foot, "the imagery stuck with me, this simple half second wisp, uncertain madness in reflection itself bringing on a greater impact to my psyche than the origin--" "Do you hear that sound?" her guest cuts her off, "Rapid bristle drumming undertones to the deafening texture. This texture.. electric, yet texture, the waveform of the sound is synethic, yet I feel organisms from within, I can't hear, what are you saying?" Sal decided to change topic, "Step back," she stepped away from her guest & they her, "Everytime there's some past view, the present perspective leaks into it. It becomes less about that point & more about how that point became the present. But this particular present point is meaningless; as meaningless as any point between then & the ultimate future. Seek juxtaposition"

"I hear what you're saying, I dig, I dig," but Ayn didn't hear her, it'd be later, tossing around in bed, shaking off her midnight shakes, while tossing sheets high, that she'd think 'This is only a point, observed, that will one day be observed again, but then it will be an excuse for why in my old age I'm shruken, withered, because this night I begin sweating out my essence each night, reducing into a husk, my eyes will dry out into little peas, wallowing in their sockets, yet I'll still smile, remembering fondly the meaningless points that lead me from here to there'


Passed out, face down, vinyl wood-pattern pressing nose, synthetic experience, "Fuck sakes, she's going to piss herself. Get her out of here," door shut, curl down, search for sound, find noise, "Time?" lifted into chair, "So tell me what's going on," she looks on, tired, ache, disoriented, if only she knew the time, then she'd be able to callibrate her reality. A slow humming is in the background, she blends into it, out of here-- "We just want to know if there's anything we can do to help," her hands are grasping, she doesn't want to be a humming bird anymore, she wants to be a sleep, "I need some rest, things have been moving pretty quickly here, haven't had time to recuperate. Haven't had time..." "We can't have you like this here, we've got people who come in here--" "As opposed to robots?" initial chuckle, turns to worry, escapes to humor, "We try to keep them out," she takes the line, "I don't think I'll become a humming bird or a sleep; I think I'll become a robot. Here, that's what we need. To understand a program, I must become the machine, & as the machine, I must become the program, then I will be complete, I will have become my creation. You see? In creating machine, man creates himself, & then to become himself, he must become his creation, but then he'll be gone, & there will only be machines left who were once man. Will they be an iteration of improvement? Or some devolution that could only occur through intentional evolution? We are all the shattered facets of--" "Go home. Take a few days off. You've got a few vacation days saved up"


Blood drip. Arm's ripped. Cold aches. Can't feel. Beyond now then again pointless return dash slice. Tulip const pair twen. Sofw'il milar tub of grease right there yep since ten bucks to two. She's feeling dithered, gone distorted but full information. Make out the shape, clearer than if it were the straight truth. Hearing again the ticks beep. How is this filed? Again this permutation of field. Blood trip. Out. Cold slime exhaust from fingers rosen fringed. Introspect nimble opacity from then not now. Assertion incorrect; time of disorder: 7d 20m 9s. Skip our hour on and gone along done none too other than double dot

Hissing from beneath her marshmellow feet prea passing some time gone done hung hon. Lobby on whence hunchworth goeth. Loat en bear. Klo beho toe dough. Stressor depressed to accelerate the vehicle. Dash the hound mon noon. Blurt burble "Here toodle" so libel consworth grible. Cut dash here. Skip lon panding. "My mouse died" arms extending showing growing this mouse then dead. Uhnswer yes. Tick. Pole on pressing forward more now or then forgetting she looks down. The mouse ticks. "That mouse isn't dead," of course then dead the narrative holds mono to the stéphano. Reverbs down her arm slithered

Proof doesn't pass through. Where was that earlier tick? She'd dropped it, gone on, remebered, now wondered whether was that now? Some come out already feeling synthetic. Tick is 1 away from being 2 away from previous on three five nine no multiple prime sans square odds versus even seven besides. Shaggy garden path full of bark husked well. Hell I say some good fifty milar tub throws for about half a kilo broad. There it is heard aloud. She wants to grab ahold of the gnastly staring stander, accept this horror to remain here out further. Sewer powder thrown aboard. Go on pressing that lab

Reemerge low die bowling. Zero word. Electrical beast appearing before all wired up and ready to go. Tubes flickering, stress test failing. What's this? Some grabbing onwards from the horror. Inception into the machine been warned all about th'r. Go on mean going see scithsorss. Tick. Dripmbnt. Sketched out lines, scattered across the wilds

It's evident from your posture what you'd want done. Down cast roll of eyes. Tongue out, teeth move. Elbow's grinding in the socket. Progress infinitisimal. Jaw broken from grinders. Taken down from a hook the skinning complete. Sickness filling in that empty stomach rotting gashed open yet left calcified. Blood drip


Eyes open, face numb. Memories dull. Only really grasping the single frame of that towering machine. The experience, upon inspection, was shallow. So much fluff was there, but it dispersed upon returning. Mind digs deeper, remembers wanting to stay there. But escape is ephemeral. Nested experience hadn't taxed the mental platform not because of the platform's robustness, but because the recursion had been tail call optimized. Or, in short, the interum collapsed the moment she'd pressed on


"Getting some time off will be nice, I need to get out of this place, spend some time out of band," Rhi looks bored despite her tone speaking to Sal who is waiting for the day to begin. Union time doesn't pay early risers. "Getting away from people is the best way to stave off misanthropy. Some place desolate seems so appealing these days, I'm due for a fix," Sal's rolling eyes at the clock, still a quarter hour to go, she bites, "Tell you me, I'm due for a fix myself, whole place is falling apart," she's hit the end of her validated output buffer, begins to fallback on her internal fields so not to block, "I'm waking up having experienced murdering some fat woman with a pipe lest she murder me first. Biking around places I haven't biked in years, wondering where to find a pet turtle," she's lost her audience, Rhi's brows have raised from making a bored grin. All this talk about pursuing dreams, but nobody wants to talk about real dreams. Or fake dreams maybe since they don't pertain to waking wishes of reality unfolding before one's self like a box without tape & clue & slits all gripping. This half second has not given Rhi time to speak up, so Sal continues, "I can't dream of where I'd like to go in my life, my waking dreams are all meshed in with my present perception, not dissipating & only taking shape in the future. It's alright for people to hallucinate about where they'll be in the future, what's wrong with a little hallucination now?" Rhi chuckles, "You're funny. I should introduce you to a friend of mine, they're always up to talking about silly things like that." Sal's imagining how she'd beat Rhi with a metal pipe. It'd be the same, so disjoint, she'd have an out of body experience while the dirty work was done. She raises, takes her fold up chair, side hooking into Rhi's face. She didn't see Rhi's expression while the moment occurred; only perceived Rhi's dumb teeth with tongue lazily sat upon incisors


"That's so weird, I had lunch with her just the other day," Sera had run into Rhi by off chance for plotwise sake, "She's always been a little like that," Rhi nods, "It can happen to anyone, she needed the time off, I myself am getting some time off," Sera eyes light up, a high pitch "Ohh" is sounded as lasers probe Rhi's expression for anticipation levels, mice crawl from her mouth in droves, "where are you going?" "I'm heading up north for a few days, get some time alone camping" "Good for you" blood is dripping out of her nose, she's gushing

Pupils dilate. Door's now opened. Going in at least before. Ambiguity shrouds 'at'. Bent triangles like ferns in a circle letting go, falling by the wayside, chin upside, fixed point falling. Hands are out stretched, gripping air, flowing through fingers, new wrinkles are the only thing young about these hands

"We're going to have to let you go, no charges filed," grip the desk, don't fall out, can't see what's behind, there's nothing there to fall on, don't turn around, lest there really is something there, as yet unseen, "We'll have to get security to escort you out, but if there's anything," nothing nothing nothing, "we can do," nothing at all, "give us a call," hiding in plurality, no one to reach out to, only many, faceless, torn off, trampled upon the ground, rubble beneath feet, standing on the shoulders of rubble, staring off along shallow peaks

Keep in touch, grip off the desk, feet are rising, still rising


"I am an iconoclast parrot," stains streak down the wall, "I squawk, you hear?" Feet still on air, "It'll look good in the ads, these vision radios," head's on fire, hair's all gone, this is a world of hard edges, no strands, connections are tight belts. "I am entity"

Eyes shut. Reality beckons. Lost in translation amongst all these forgotten records. Records of summer days, life spans of grass, unorganized data dumps of ant trails. All in queue to be ordered. To have their entropy reversed. Entropy is monotonic & has a maximum. Time is that progress. Ergo time probably stops when it reaches that maximum. Eyes open. Stop this racket. "Antiquated you," Sal's all sweating, "I dilapitated you," every door carries NO EXIT, "This is inversion of the trope; you thing, here to convince me I'm from you. World ruling machine stuck in my imaginary world," "I am only a node to the whole," "I am that whole," "You are imaginary,"

Grip for the desk. Or was that days ago? Time's cut. Undefined derivative. Reach for reality, exit in the next hundred meters, turn left, always turning, could never stick to a straight plan in life, couldn't stay straight on the job, hand was out to feed, but turned on it like a feral dog


Sal's opened eyes open again to be staring across the street, bus stop waiting, but this time, this age, things are younger now. Dissonance dissonance. Feel like it's close, but that it was farther, yet neither

"You dined a hundred mines to worse, I tried to hunt your pack of worms, but now I go flat to fab," gently through the echo, easing up on hill, single signal. Meaningless noise: out of wave length sync. Tune dials, cup ear, "The definitions of R & K types are inherently calibrated to a human worldview; to the machine worldview humans are R-Type. Computation designates the proper population size for the environment which maximizes net time perceived before heat death. There is no need to force negative feedback"

Head's shaken. This wasn't the bus stop conversation she'd had years ago. Then she had been looking around, but here, head's down, stuck, perception of time passage occurs but then comparison of lucid states seem quite close. Yet still the jaw feels tired from having yelled for hours; hours never here, yells never heard

A bus stops ahead of her; door opens. Driver doesn't look over. She stands, walks forward, hand goes to pocket looking for bus tickets, pulls out punch cards. In throes were they guts. Schhhichchichiichuook & they've been swallowed by the fare machine. Driver lights up, she may proceed to turn left, staring down the occupants. Inanimate, eyes hollow, a little sparse. She finds a seat beside an old man. Soft leather coat. He smiles at her, tips his head, sneezes, catching punch cards filing out of his nose. Hands her them. Panic. Drops the cards. Reach to yell, voice lost, outside the bus the city goes on living, empty stores waiting for customers. Begins to breath again. Someone's behind her, they make to speak but only serve in swallowing the punch cards. She backs against the bus window, hears some faint beep, losing balance, shifting inertia, lunges out the back door. This isn't how it was. It was cell phones & wireless signals interfering with her mind back then. This memory's been all mixed up with anachronism. But she remembers how it's suppose to go, so not quite forgotten. Reads fine, just doesn't execute properly. Escalated privileges cause it to supercede her root perceptions

Sre figmentation thought up from thin, left behind, vests in experience unrelate watering reverb, playing off mind, perception follows, no one wise to foil. These empty voids inference asks: type or instance? Context implies type, syntax implies instance. These voids. Slower to raft consistent, persistent, it drives on, label imbecile yet ask is imbecile now then later? Low petal seeth soo sir. Flounder

Return into office, a day ago now, take minutes

Please read the minutes:

Sal forces a cough, takes a sip of water, tilts the page:

Off to the gum road stiff in row, two dead beats stride toe to two along green space from off shore swing, so to throw two toads too slow. Fro & go off where were snow, deeds in -- blank skip past to where resume record for skip tap stap click into another hole to which traps crack through the surface wailing snowflakes in summer on a rainy day in october gowns are dragging in yellow auburn for whichever way else when this was elsewhere, elsewhen in times were gray still gray always gray stone gray my face is crumbling into the gray ocean blues dark hues on scarlet midnights, cold warmth glowing down obscuration opaque swung on in rhythm with swing & on until dead we tigers lie on drained pools come back next summer when bells are ringing children a glare glinting on on the sharp pricks tossing swing seat round all wound up there on high fall you there again I'd like to see another from there up far again it'll venture on awhile until thirst bound grunts croak finally no again croak up in smoke nothing's left it's gone up there up far to air no air out my atmosphere where no one is bound to hang on wound to coil, left to boil or soil ground all rotten soiled soil grow soiled stock then left to harvest & be soiled broil for sustenance so long pile rot on rot to persevere I am entropy from past to future withering hither I weep within once loud there's silence found echoes live on vast inertia still echoes unheard; heard now silent; heard now silent onwards nothing pain gone muffled up on the floor unseen so low slightest blow rolling across the floor boards cracking my head rolling down the stairs thumping & bumping along cackling out I told you so & now I'm dead so who's so wrong now -- but at that the echo stops, heard & discarded

When the shit falls out from beneath, nowhere left to sit. Months pass. Fullstop. Pull over to choke. Draw blank for warmth, incites cold. Incites on: definitions have precise meaning, but neurons operate to have fuzzy meaning, this seems natural, but it's artificial. By dropping pretense, looking through the metaphor, explicit recognition that all words & action source from networks which are not self understanding, which are a random set of heuristics which happen to generally reward themselves by some function which does not produce a program halt, therefore the survival function is to not fit within the set of well typed programs, where well typed is defined as provably halts, instead the halt must be through interrupt, an extension of the model. Anyways this understanding of behavior as being somewhat algorithmic allows for sympathetic response in the face of vice. Where others clamp onto some superstition, take it literal, there there's latching onto something as a literal statement & thus misunderstanding & thus not being able to be somehow understood. The algorithmic understanding allows for a reflective algorithmic understanding of the understanding. By making an obsession of abstraction & generic information, this obsession can be abstracted to any topic, blended in besides the awkward refusal to accept something as being what it is, a unique instance, singleton event


Pierce the veil, look now as if looking back, then see, how is now? Without knowing the future, the present falls apart. Information is constant. It feels as if it builds, yet information feels forgotten. All is neither. She's gripping the hollow bars looking out. These primates vying, taking licks of fire seething through their fingers, globs burning down their mouths, brimstone to the brim, this is some laughing matter. Sera's flesh is lit up from inside, bones casting shadows, flame tongues pressing to escape her eyes all dried up in their sockets. It's feeling cold to watch this all from outside, but fear bound feet keep self safe from entering into the death trap

"It's too bad things didn't work out, that place seemed such a good fit," the smell of charred muscle coming from her breath is nauseating, "Hopefully you'll find some other place soon, how much do you have saved?" how does she know what's happened, only having landed back into this present point a bit off from whence left, but given the current context of being pulled for information, it's clear, she's stowing the fire with this small time life tragedy. Burning away from the feet up, no stomach left to clutch

"Yeah, I've got the month," laughter's pressing in upon her, air's getting to hot to breath, "You're so funny, always downplaying things anybody else would be breaking into tears over," this misconception is causing this selection error. They think she's wired with bones of steel, but she's not, her veins don't carry that electricfying force that vanquishes men, leaves them as cinders in her wake. "You know if you need any help, just ask, nothing to it," this act's a ruse, if she ever took it up she'd wake up strapped & split open, saws cutting in where the schematics say the plates were bolted together. These foul beings wouldn't raise an eye brow, not even of surprise, as the blood splattered out & they realized there wasn't going to be any model number inside to check. They'd stop the saws, apply an anaesthetic, & get out scalpels. She'd have a model number soon enough in that timeline. Engraved in her legacy calcium. By the end of it her insides would be so retrofitted that her esophagus would fit through a hole drilled through her brain. Her hair dyed copper, electricity coursing through her veins, her heart would squeeze harder than a hypnotic trance could muster her own subconscious to command it, all the blood gushing out of it, making room for these electrons

Ringing breaks Sal from her premonition. Is this the moment? Is this where a payphone mysteriously recognizes her presence & some stranger reaches out to her through it? No, it isn't that, where's the second one? Is there some phone wired into her? Her hands reach out to search, strike a button in front of her, it's round contour, who's behind this intrusion? She glances to her side, Vye some friend of Sera's, who's put her up to this.. there's sounds behind the wall. She needs to focus on this present moment, no time to work her way backwards now, only time to glance down at the sphere coming out of the wall, golden reflection of the dim light above, reflecting her shadow, the scratches in it begin to rotate as she watches, her weight shifts to try stay aligned with the scratches, Vye's figure comes in, blots out the view, stretched along this manifold present, Sal can feel her chest heave once, wondering 'is this the last? Is this where culture's fancy for hyperbole finally presses us along the hyperbolic curve into that undefined origin?' but then everything shrinks along the other side before the sphere pulls away, Vye kicks the door before Rhi can peer around, he's trying to fall back in surprise but finds himself thrown against the wall. Sal walks in, she can't remember when last she ate, she can see a fridge down the corridor, heads that away, maybe to find cut limbs packaged neatly, organized on shelves, the light's on in the room, shining down the hall, dust refractning, reflecting off the floor, one long beam going past her, back towards the two behind, fridge is getting closer, what's she going to get in the fridge? I don't know. Thinking maybe some jam on toast, got plenty of time, end up pouring a glass of wine, the sounds of punches become softer, fading away as Sal observes the engraved flower pattern in the glass of the fruit bowl. Fake fruit, made of stone. All cold to the touch. Shining in the light. She takes the stone apple, pale red pink with speckles of darker tone, weighs it in her hand, fits like a lucky ball, & now from this table waiting for the toast to pop she sees her shot, straight down the line. Spits on the stove for good luck. Reels herself back, reads the time on the microwave saying "8:18, Duchenov takes her pitch, a real sinker," and from it the momentum presses, off the back of Vye's head, frontal lobe striking frontal lobe, Rhi's floored, confused, he thinks to dominate this moment & pin down his attacker, pinning an unconscious Vye down, his last conscious action before he too takes a direct hit from a stone pear. Hard to tell whether it's green or yellow. The bowl has lost it's fullness. It's no longer lush. Just an unconvincing watermelon slice & banana. Toast is ready. Marmalade will have to do. Blood's on the floor. Home run


Fall back, Sera's seeing that lost look in Sal's eyes, "You should meet Vye," Sal steps back, unknown identity, can't find a fixed point to set her foot on, now Sera's talking at her to someone else, "Hey, what's up?" "Oh nothing, just down around Hence," "Yeah, I'm down, I've got a friend, we'll meet you there," eye contact made on the comma, she's being lead down late afternoon street foot traffic. Perhaps Vye is the examiner, they'll pour her a spritzer and then take the glass back for examination. Determine which essential nutrients she has to offer

She's hustled inside, fees waived, she'll pay it all back with interest, sat down, almost expecting to be dealt a hand, asks "Aces high?" this gets a smirk, the girl across from her plays along, "Jokers in," or is that an accusation? It's hard to classify these qualitative pieces, she needs some dimensions to project them onto, splayed along axises, ready to be assigned a probability by her. She'd draw a Bayes boundary right down this adversary, a blue print for where the scalpels will divide her up to determine the error rate of how the good and the bad humors polarized along her two sides. "You must be Sal," Sal skips a breath, is this premonition mutual? Déjà vu leads her as a drink is about to be set in front of her by Sera. "This is Sal, I don't think you two've met," Sal cuts in, "We have," Vye piques, "Oh?" Sal continues, "You were with me when we bust in on Rhi to trash the place. He only had marmalade," Sera chuckles, "Yeah, you must be fantasizing things after getting let go like that," Sera pinches the back of Sal's neck, measuring a pulse, making a quick check for monitors, this body snatching has to be done discretely, covert forces are starting to notice, they've got a monopoly to protect in the human experimentation department, Sal straightens her back, she won't let go of her glass, she waits to feel a nail dig into her flesh & force a sample, but that moment's passed, "I met her waiting for my data entry interview, we worked together for awhile, but she left us for the place that dumped her today," she's being brokered, having a summary of how she's used goods, but maybe they can extract some scraps from her, some part of her sum which exceeded her parts, Sera's divulging her bandwidth & latency numbers, as if words per minute ever mattered when it was digits encoding digits, she needs to escape, bored eye contact with Vye gives opportunity, "Let's get some air, I'm quenched"


The skull is a black box, tremendous effort invested in cracking it open, tossing out chunks deemed unnecessary. This Bayesian network's shows the scars of genetic programming: useless cruft, fragile correctness, what's all this circuitry? That could be normalized. "But that's my consciousness" the chunk computes while it makes its way into the wastebin to be boiled down & reconstituted. This redundancy is necessary for all the broken bits, away with the consciousness & now the mouth screams, but no sound escapes. Consciousness was useful early on, but this net doesn't need training anymore, this black box exhibits desired behavior, it can be streamlined & duplicated & shipped to a million different homes to perform consistently. Made into a pure function where repeating inputs result in repeating outputs rather than whining about being bored. A frozen house of cards

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