Content creation • Solipsism • Cybernetics • Voidism
Finders peepers, backyard creepers. Where were you when Can Francis went wide? Probably doing what everyone else was doing. Chiseling the fine prism. Tracing the dust. Watching it all coming like a slow motion graviton.
The shed farm washed in purple energy goop. It smells like anise. The extruder at every station womps another womp. Do you remember the sound? Hackles. Mackerals. Pull the palette out. Reflect. Rotate. Repeat filter. Contank to Memphis do you read?
Patron Avi seeks a blister poem for her beloved. Ephemeral schematics. Ha. That’s a damn dump truck of a request. Feast fog. Beast dog. My dear Baskerville, do you miss the dirt? The furniture lined up neatly on the floor. The footsteps. The feel. The fond farewell. Every once in a while, everyone does.
Sync. Were you planted early? Rhizome. Thigh bone. You are a porch wizard of highest quality. Pasting backgrounds of playful grace and purpose. The monacular connector swivels from the high beam and spray fucks a thousand eyeballs. Now there’s a start.
No one would have believed Francis Ohlee if he told them then, that this would be the last time they would see each other in this line. And while everyone connected, no one realized that zooming out could go too far. Being in-state, working for Contank, driving a content bus full of the prime cream was a good gig. Until none of that mattered.
Bank A picturenauts like Fran shovelled zels into the slipnet and kept everyones haptic boat afloat. Pushing through the streams of confluence with a photocharged scepter of netherwrath.
At some point there was no body. No void. No off switch. A soul conductor blowing dank glory through the foam channels. It’s easy to fly off and not understand, but it will make sense in time.
Tuesday seven-one fifty-nine. They’re opening the time capsule. Blowing it open into the wash. Absorbed by every node, Fran held the next move. Pulling back like an elastic, he split zoom the glass. Snapping for a better crop. Everyone grab a beverage. Count of three. Gaussian light blurs tangle the flesh mesh and pour cool delicious through the gills of our mothers and fathers.
The rest is banded history, barely obscured by the fractal splash. The simultaneous can cracks, the involuntary whoosh as we all flew back. Over the rain blow. On one, we slipped a last time. And lost all declaration in the new field. Golden suds burbling through light rail veins we past the end flag and tweaked foreverland.
Someone else took care of the lines now. Grease the prongs glove monkey. Here’s a hot pile of reverb for your face hole. Chug. Drag a little harder Memphis, there’s a trophy ball at the end of your tether. Oh amber wave punch — we’d all like to hit that again. Even if it was the first time.
The solipnet gave everyone the answer they were looking for. But after you zoom all the way out, the questions disappeared.