Camera pans over a labyrinth — we interrupt this broadcast to bring you a Borges original. White space that’s not emptiness, not death. Just electronic paper awaiting Times New Roman text. I’m striving for relief in the joy of text. A cool medium which I endeavour to heat up. Let’s get lost in the funhouse for breakfast with champions and ask the androids if they ever dream of electric sheep then go buy tickets that explode to our funerals and crash the afters like a gaggle of mad outrageous fuckheads off our heads on fuckballs.
Paranoia skates the boundary between delusion and enlightenment. The Paranoid Android, removed from its cultural context, may actually be the way forward. As the great Cryer once said, all this is either a coincidence, a conspiracy, or a cruel joke. Now you are Maxwell’s Demon. You are going to break the Second law of Thermodynamics and dammit you do not care who knows about it. Entropy has no mass on you. You have one little formula and with it you shall take over the world. With your right hand I shall write this novel, with your left hand I shall write my little formula. I shall take this potato chip, and eat it! I’ll leave the little Poseurs with their irony and pop mulch. I’m headed for the greenest of green pastures. Within my own fiction I have found my End. An ippy — dippy femme fatale as raucously wishy — washy as Donna Matrix shall not deter me on my path of righteousness. O yes, come ye who will see our glory. We are to revel in the End, and the End is good.