My friend Facade is writing a history of the hive mind as soon to be told to the ghost of King J the V of Scotland. (Every black hole thinks it knows itself, and hums.) The internet is technology is the Industrial Revolution is the Demiurge laboring to make a world unbearable.
Facade has been my bad companion since childhood. I remember, Facade’s parents were always walking up their driveway, just coming home. Facade is a bully, the sneak kind that pries your skeleton open with crowbar words and filches your nerves to chew on. I think I’m Oh if Facade doesn’t knock I can’t get out of in love. Bed. There is no cure for what is never going to especially if it would be a disaster happen. Some crossroads are rarely by lost bodies come upon, but that doesn’t make the undergrowth matter less or mean more. Skewer privilege as tidily as you can, its self-importance will drip loud enough to drown you out. And a child can’t sleep with icy hands. Clutch cold sheets where. On the edge of. Almost we humans had it.
— Basil Cartryte