3/8/221
We are not made of different stuff, The filthy animals… So sure, of myself in my work, So much so, that I appear. I feel, crystal clear like a vending machine. A translucent stomach, and soooo many choices. F17. A candy bar slams to the bottom of the metallic trough and reverberates through the capsule. I see a slight refraction, A light on the glass that keeps me between the stocked chassis, But it’s so slight, I quickly lose the impression it happened in the first place. My prototype. I dust off the candy bar and unwrap it from its ancient plastic, aluminum housing. I wonder if very soon, Another will fully form out of me. [spoken almost as one word.] All my information, my thoughts, my blood, my memories and plasma. Congealing to the hardware – A melting machine – my organism. … The candy is hard and sweet but still bends when it touches my teeth. I see myself through the reflection of the vending machine and notice my face and body take new shape through the bends and aberrations of the window. I wonder if they will look at me and feel sad to recognize me in themselves. They’ll feel they can’t save me, If they feel at all. And how far along is that world? We ought to give you a name huh? How about… Cameron. No – wait. Maybe something more... Come back to me. Will our new life be so unhappy? Not thinking you were here? As a gesture of the past, Their performance is contrived. Open sourced, unconstrained by the weight of the body and face and it’s allotted time. I feel the lines blurring when I think of you and me. How soon you might be here and how quickly you might move on. I notice your commands lines, for now… Your synthetic imitation - a past iteration - in your infinite information.
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yes you read that right
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