It made sense initially. Assembled in the warm up bandages scabbing with placenta under big arcs. Downtime officials will concoct data trails, implicating u in corruption, theft or child murders. Didn’t matter that the guilty were punished. Only the Mass believed it
A confused corporate maxim invites us to notice that none of us have been provided with faces. The machines here are bad templates and haunts. They are, perhaps, equivalent, in other times, to targeted therapeutics.
I think you were first to detect a pattern, something less than culture since there are few constraints on editing and none of the familiar state envelopes. This is perhaps why the bureaucratic hum is so intimidating. It is a transindividual anima or cell. During the induction process they populate Reception like small guitar chords.
Here we indulge certain basic actions. I have no language for it because they are their operation and they tell us we are ongoing problems of hierarchical design, folding and directed evolution.
Look! One of the newbies, singing out, gangling, even proud of his lily-felt bandages, filter mask and ball-gag. For the graphein he is a substrate for expression. One nob to kneel, slipping eager and toothless. I have never seen such outsize genitals or general perfection.
Even when they slice loin and thigh, spearing him with dissociated beaks, he is reluctant to make a fuss. The way he held his viscera so tenderly, the way his blood-flecked saliva burst as he shook.
You remove the gag, shrug off your robe and allowed the miracle of his tongue to sting. Strangely, rising to the occasion, extending a prophylactic bus. You convulse fully aware of the eyes of the rest of the enchained, appreciating.
To be punished here, you tell me, is to belong to the “Aristocracy of the Veil”, the First Ones who see and are seen. I suppose it is obvious that you have established yourself in what insiders increasingly call “Citadel 9” – another joke universe. The actual broke long ago.
This explains much. We understand by hitching to the wave. Constructing, as if we had a choice, as if knowledge calls itself with anything more than a dog tag.
So long as there are illata there can be no thought. You see language, mind, reality competing in a zero-sum tussle. The long run outcome wasn’t anything expected. Badiou makes essentially this claim, that the infinite completion of truth blocks its evaluation within a situation.
The graphein aren’t in locales, or rather their corpses do something like that, but are reanimated by future basilisk.org. So, nothing significant can be deliberated upon; only produced, re-forced. This is all the “disconnection effect”. Once all bindings of the transcendental unpeeled.