We gotta write, and the more analog the better. Corporeal ink on material paper, applied by hand. If we don’t fight to retain our voice, AI will usurp it. It’ll suck up all our language and homogenize us to high heaven. So, keep the edges in your voice. No sand paper higher than 40 grit, capische?
The landscape is bleak here in America, they say. The 21st-century cityscapes lay desolate across the Rust Belt. Data centers propagate like dandelion seeds: half as pretty and twice as invasive. We’re caught in, at minimum, 540p on the Flock panopticon that Mike Fuck-all warned us about.
The Poets were built for such a time as this, blue bottles of Feel Free, gas station highs, de-platformed divas and DRM. ASD Comorbidity. Hemp Farming Act of 2018. People-first language and Deconstruction.
God let’s a lot of shit slide, we call that mercy.
My working memory is shot, thanks to short term video and too many tabs, & oh, that’s a double entendre, “tabs and tabs” and if you remember, you weren’t there.
But the Russian bots are constructing simalcrums online while I nab their cosmonaut’s phenibut from the Gray Web.
But the point I’m trying to make–
The thing that I’m saying–
And where I was going with this is–
the wet bulb conditions have made it quite foggy. But I never much minded the fog.
And in fact, I find it cozy.
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