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life support

February 30, 3290. From x→y

“ . I love you, and nothing can change that. It’s been 12 years, and I’m sick of flailing around in the darkness. I’ve had my Cognician friends help me develop a little something in secret.

If you join me, we’ll abstract, slowly fading away from corporeal existence until we transcend into the realm of ideas, where we can finally be together, for ever. I love you.”

Reply:

“I’m with you. Let’s do it. The world’s going to hell, anyway. There’s no more hope for either of us in here. Meet me in the wired.”

Galatea*ω*

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life support

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ous. And nobody can tell the difference.

(-)burgs and (-)villes across, war has become unbearable. months have been crammed into days, the same cycle of erasure and restart treating those subjected to it like machines, the times expecting them to perpetuate miserable cycles that Camus would find abhorrent.

In ten years, the streets will be clear again, and reparations will be made. Mistakes will be acknowledged, and people will try to live lives again. Some will seek counterjustice, some still will try to pretend that the dead were never alive. Some still will forget entirely. This is not about them. Among the statistics, tens upon tens upon tens of lives were wasted, two points in that graph, will have attempted to take their passing into their own hands.

in a phrase, they've abstracted. (in their native Filipino, gone for lost)

Had they waited longer, they would've woken up to a bright, sunny day today. They would've had their morning coffee, would've laughed together.

All they've left was this screen, spitting out words and ideas, all they've ever had.

Had they waited longer, they would have continued to be the mean instead of the minority, melding into the flow, having never laid bare their ideas for anyone who would listen.

13 episodes