The wired book of lucid little secrets

Synopsis: This is a postmodern tale of digital hope, candy, and anti-bucket lists, written as a tribute to Michael Palmer. Most of the suspense rests with the following: Will Christy ever make it to Budapest? Will Rob save his soul?

This is the notebook where they compile a list of things, such as this and so forth:
To stare empty-headed at a sunset from the shores of a certain lake. To spill adrenaline by the doorway of a propeller aircraft built in a certain era. To drive through the night on a route carrying a certain number. And wait: Moonlight safari plus white colonial hat, call my bluff if you can

Compile, they have seen the movie too. And so they write: I want to see the world, I want to drink an absinth concoction, I want to spin out of control in a certain location, I want to check this off, fulfill the eastern promise and scream it to the face of the world

Delete. A certain island is eerie no more. Delete too. They won’t give you a shot of epinephrine for living off the grid for a week. Please delete: everything about sunsets, swimming nightly or canoeing in a certain river

Compile and remember: Nature will disappoint you like it disappointed all of us for the last thousand years. There is room for oblivion and improvised meals at the local drugstore. There is room for silence and there is room for chewing. For tunes on a closed loop and obsession with meaningless imagery. There is room galore

Trade with me. On this notebook I left a blank page for their pipedreams such as etcetera. It controls days and nights alongside. It produces marvels of nothingness and can up anybody’s game at least twice

The page will write itself and might as well auto-delete. If they say so, it will take pictures that no one can ever print. If they say so, it will produce cute sounds and trigger ah’s and oh’s. When you say so, it will cannibalize other items in less than a minute, following the shortest oblique path to the nearest ray of light

Compile. Strikethrough a certain set of formerly colonial islands. Replace all the dots with exclamation marks and let the emoticon speak for itself

Compile. They write postcards to certain P.O. boxes whose coordinates are unknown to every soldier but one. This will be your colonel until you check it off, too

Consider instant items. Pop in, pop off. The ink won’t submit them, the page won’t resist their lack of confidence, and eventually you will have to repurpose all the things

Consider discharge. Consider radiance. Consider lollipops. Little clichés for your eyes only

Compile and ripple over. To crash the system simply share them with your network in one click. For a premium you will get a feature of your choice

• Seamless integration with all the neurotransmitters that are still hesitant
• Perfect forward secrecy with all future emotions enacted in non-alphabetical languages
• Analytics about the when but not the how or why. For whereabouts please come back in the spring

To delete everything at once, click here. Remains will be remains and jigsaws. Past puzzles will linger with depth and enshrine a page of your choice in full transparency

Compile and consider the requirements. A he or a she, a reluctant there, a wandering turtle and a hairy tortoise. Consider the aftermath. To prevent sadness, take a pill without breathing and raise your arm twice. To prevent headaches as well, persistently

Now you know: In that tunnel of awesomeness there is a book dim and dimmer that contains a rifle full of secrets

So colonel, do you copy. They wrote you a postcard about the nearest ray of light but someone must have lost it or framed it. They sent you antique notebooks whose pages were left blank except for drawings and gibberish. On the adrenaline vial one could read: there is room for more fiction but there is no room for narratives — ignorance is a blast, groovy

If you hold a map and a hat there is room for staring at a second moon in a glimpse of hope. There is room for oblivion and for squaring the loop in plain sight. There are glimmers and even glitters on the things that matter or sound alike

Items would be like: aim, aim, fire, we are one in the sunlight, check and double-check
Shudders would be like: bear, moose and empty cans, is this a stone or a bone
Our requiem is pick-pack-pook, count to five and here we go again
And when no one would compile, she’d be like

pinch me if you can, you little cunt