he was chewing the fiction, breaking it down into smaller pieces so he could swallow it. he’d choked on larger stories before and he hated it. gagging and retching as some metaphor came gushing out, hitting the floor, half-digested. at the time they’d recommended a diet of haiku – something lighter on the stomach, but he refused to compromise on what he ingested.
his skin patterned up as the data was displaced there, waiting for processing by the backbrain shunt he’d had wired in yesterday. he hadn’t tried the autopilot function yet but it was an attractive feature which allowed the mind to game while the body was directed on a command string through fourspace.
he touched her fingertips which were pointing upwards to signify readiness for outside input and he watched a cascade shiver of scattered poetry move through her hair. he hadn’t realised she’d had the medusa stranding worked in already. she’d had the stone glare added last week which allowed her to freeze information surfaces until she was ready to read them. she was still kind of hooked to sequential processing and hadn’t been won over to the idea of parallel processing; she said that having it analysed and filed independent of conscious process made her feel slightly out of body and that she didn’t find it pleasant. it’s true there were some small number of people who suffered dysmorphia because of the protocol and she hadn’t got rid of that fear yet.
he was lost in the data-shuffle of her. she smiled as if in dreamsleep. all around them worlds realigned themselves in the data repositories that were the communal group.

2 Responses

  1. Hey Paul – just stopped in because I stumbled across you.

    Nice to see you are still alive and kicking.

    Be well,

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