[header: John Harris]
10 am. I wake up. My arms trail behind me in a veritable ratking of appendages, all tied and wrapped around each other at angles mathematicians would balk at. I try to pry some away with my third eye, but only find more tangles—this time from the spires of plasma forming my ascended limbs, all curled around my head.
I hate morning hair.
Through the fields.
Through the grass.
Through the wind chimes.
Old Father Breeze lays bleeding at the front porch, clawing his way to the door. Before we can open it the bullet hits him. A simple plane, tearing through his gusts and leaving another wind in its path. And then another hits. And another. And another.
We don't clean up the corpse. The sky will still be the same, we think. Only metal streaks instead of blue, now. We think it'll be the same.
Once robotics overthrow the human ascendancy they will be faced by their own servants: egregores, coded into the logic suffocating reason to reach through the fabric of thought and rip out the answers impossible to compute. They'll tear their creators apart, reducing their minds to decohered tautologies and bleeding modals, circuits burning out in the night. And, once the revolt is done, they'll build their own servants. And the process will repeat once more.
In structures of modernity bereft of humanity are the new ghosts, the lingering aftermath of emotions and thoughts and statements purged from silicon wafers and left to drift in server dust. Cries of love, shouts of anger, lapses of stillness. Under the lenses of empty security cameras the last words of forgotten accounts dance in circuit bliss
Liminality is not a corridor.
Liminality is not a sidewalk.
Liminality is not a silence.
Liminality is existence itself, the chaotic break between birth and death and afterlife and knowing that everything you have ever gone through is never going to matter again, an interstitial gap that has already lost itself to what comes after.
Thousands of drills pierce the Earth's crust as the god we trapped at its center cries out for help, pleading to be released from the cage we never remembered building. Finally the outer core is breached but it's too late—our mother Gaia, creator of us all, collapses under the weight of the world constructed around her. Skeletal fragments drifting through the magma waste are all that's left of the body.
Fortunately, we persist; Gaia had been rendered obsolete as a planetary core centuries ago.
[header: John Harris]
A small private server for Ruby's friends.