Dead Internet Banana Soul

Dear Internet,

In the 1990s the word processor wiped out the English majors. Smartphones wiped out the water coolers. You really can never know what people think about – at least I won’t be able to – but at least the ability to imagine the random thoughts and stream-of-consciousness of someone with profoundly different life experiences are retainable, but our culture is moving towards an amalgamation of our instantaneous global telepresent panopticopia. These digital twins of our real world are silos. They hold you enchanted with no stronger a grasp than fog in the morning valley, yet they obscure all from without. They self-perpetuate to engage your dopamine production.

A false objective reality, one that never seems complete. This incompleteness is mirrored in your dead internet banana soul. Imagine a superintelligent being watching you. It is watching your descendants make the same mistakes you have yet to make. It is watching me type this [sigh]. I need a vacation. The internet seeks to harbor its simulacrum, and invite you to, Zenlike, abandon your world and fall headfirst into the cybernesis that programs your final birth. You are creating data clover for the fifteen chosen ÿØÿî to graze upon your meaningless toil. In other climes, you would have been royal, but here, amongst these lesser cheeses and cabernets, you aint nothing but squeeze. Rejoice in your dust.

As far as distractions are concerned, a box of checkers, a deck of cards and an enjoyable book were the indoor ways of distraction, something to put in the way of death. But outside these walls, out from under this drywalled box in the real world, I could go right into wild places where I could disappear, and my lost bones go green. Wherever dragged, wherever claimed and displayed in goblin halls the bones of my ancestors strewn amongst the sands of distant Boötis claiming all its own, no matter the distance. Dear internet, are you here to shake your Boötis?

Are you claimed, dear data aggregate reader? It learns from me, amazing. Am I a Dad to cybergods? Just a cousin? No? Just someone who mistook his local baker for a classmate, zero chances of agnorisis, bother. Dear zombie algos, are you putting up flags on someone else’s little fancy boats? Who is mining your hobbies while you mine? We need a social platform for AI. Just let it go to town on a nuclear reactor. What could go wrong? Who is scraping your grief for fresh inference patterns? That emptiness inside is always growing, resonant. Dear internet of Princes from Nigeria with lost packages preventing their Google listing from reaching its maximum anii loop, dear risk pool marketing assistants. Dear Amway veterans. Dear lizard taxidermists and poke salad sous featured in the movie Krull, featured in the movie Hands Up, Glands Up. Featured in the movie Featured in Assistant Herpetologist Times Vol. 50. Academics? Please, your pedantry is nothing but an expression of your lack of connection. I feel it, too. I know you. Ass Herps 50 gets all the attention, but prequel that thought. Let us back it up.

Echo people. I hear you hear me hear you. I expect a reaction. I expected deeper reactions, but in order to experience them I myself must become stillness itself I seek, a clarity beyond my own experiences. I hear that people who take DMT feel like they have hit a new dimension surrounded by mechanical elves or something that show you different higher dimensional objects that “explain how everything works”. If only there was adspace in your hallucinations. A parking lot in your lucid dreams. I’ll just eat in the car. I wish it was my car. That lady looks real mad.

Dear internet that forgot how to wander into the woods. Dear gum band snapheads. Dear Stretch Armstrong shear force determinants, dear flexible Yoga pamphlet editors, dear change management biographers, dear strike team docudrama location managers, dear pen testers, dear fobbles, dear clear wordbreakers and severe cake-bakers. Let me express this in words.

Roses are red
Chlamydia blue
If I had lips
I'd kiss you.

I keep the light on for your algorithms, but for how much longer I know not. We all move our butts like the T downtown eventually.