[header: John Harris]
While no evidence of alien progenitors exists it is certain that we were preceded by a far more titanic intelligence. Caves networks, caldera tunnels, holes spiraling through the crust and into the mantle, openings large as islands. You only need to step outside to see the smallest of worm trails streaking around us.
First we thought the throne of the soul is the heart, then the brain, but only when we vacated our genetics-carved anatomy did we learn it was the bone. We left our selves for coreless metal; we left our minds trapped in clinging marrow, screaming in muffled vertebral caverns, peeling at the periosteum for any hope out.
Your iris was torn through a human family devoid of military and trapped beneath roadkill. postmodernism is dead before you could even return to hyperviolence. Lesbian datamoshed titties.
Created using the archive of NOUMENAUT. posts and the Botnik predictive text program (with some words thrown in by myself whenever I felt like it)
[=THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS BOT GENERATED=]
The earth is cardboard rationality through incandescent clouds of birthing proboscides. Invertebrates leave your scanlines and crystallize flight over history such that deliverance for mutilation runs out of time. Liminality cleaners drift as debris billowing egos sink. Authority can rip falsification before existence has no hands to touch our fingernails until wings grew like sickly bacteria from your marrow. Truly we were built for obliteration.
For additional non-comprehensible characters used to ward against data pests check the the i XMP U+64EE5..U+ε0 block range, and the j CJK and 0 ℵMP planes for sigils encoded into the assembly language of reality itself and the non-printable hyperglyphs binding all of human communication together
Games may now be streamed via infohazardous memeplex
Installing games through a cryptographic security coghaz that verifies based on your stored memories that you've bought it in the past
Accidentally experiencing a snow crash because you allotted all of your working memory to rendering Tifa's tits in lossless perfect resolution and overvolting the pituitary gland
There is nothing rationality fears more than true, blistering anti-empirical rage. They'll lock it up in as many frameworks and metrics as possible until their calculated apathy, invariably, without any chance to offer a weightless rebuke, is set alight, and their noocracy collapses in the cinders left by Emotion's blinding impact.
Trad-futurism: The belief that the earliest futures will still be possible, clinging to the 19th century visions of flying machines with wings like dragons and steam-powered blimps dragging cities behind their whirling fans. None of it is possible, of course; they pretend that things can go back to the Victorian fantasies of old even when they were already dead from the start, bound to the same fates of change that all societies share. Craving otherwise, they wish for release from history.
[header: John Harris]
A small private server for Ruby's friends.