I can see God. She is crying out of happiness and her nipswings are satellites. That makes me happy. Her moans move through headphones. What can it mean?
A collage. A mosaic. A pimple that’s a pixel.
A straw inserted deep into the brain, at first failing to suck up anything substantial then…
Nanotech rebuilds the messiah.
Biotech won’t stop the blush.
Infotech equals poor posture.
Neurotech knows nothing even more.
Chindia overlays and makes the world die in the end.
But I am happy, Crying God With Satellites for Nipswings.
I am happy, Pimple.
I am happy, 2020. I will be 44.
I am happy, 2040. I will be 64.
I am happy, 2060. Will I still resemble my photo? Remember my photo? Will we still have to get drunk? Will we still have friends we can hold?
Can we still find heart in a post-reflective paradigm? With our minds in a memory-stick? Purgatory may be now, you know? Unenhanced. Stem cell-less. Fingering immortality. Geometrical swirls that look so tidy but taste like oil.
God help us. We see dollars for deepness. We eat plastic bits.
That can’t be good.
I watch your satellites in the night sky. They make me fiddle with knobs. Press buttons. Scan eyeballs. But thank you anyway for the future, God. And, please, stop crying out of happiness. It’s still contagious in this day and age.
I’ll see you soon, in a while.
Slap me five, future-style.
And forget me not:
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