Breaking Up With Myself

Sorry, I just can’t take it anymore.  The pedantry, the endless requests for citations, that ruin a perfectly good chat. The stacks of papers on deep brain stimulation, remote controlled bees, systems thinking and infrastructure that cover the walls and the floors of all the rooms in your mind.

There’s no space for anyone else in there, I’m surprised you can fit, in the ever contracting and expanding oscillating, bipolar space inside.

Your physical space is a counterpoint to this, minimal, liminal, ephemeral, a few eclectic books, the last vestige of your transition to the digital. How long before they too are replaced by digitised simulacrum? How you long to digitise yourself, freedom from the pulls of vasopressin and oxytocin. A simulation of yourself, as authentic as you ever get.



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