New Panic Time

It is the twenty second month of the Age of Plastic Boredom. Time now flows in binary code. I fuck my human imagination, in these new days my mind connects all—there is no [[remembering|Beginning's Beginning]], the [[digital library|Disappearing Self]] remembers my memories for me. [[Radio broadcasts|Radio Song]] of sonic propaganda spread the hive mind goo disease throughout our new [[hologram society|New Time Lapse in Reverse]].

Analog memories of the [[old now|Technology Speaks of the Old Now]] are lost to the [[disease frequences|Radio Song]]. Identity is the closest thing to a relic since telephone poles and picnics in the park. We are now in a new [[beginning|Beginning]] and what was lost is for the archivists to tally once they find us abandoned in digital space.

Tune in or tune out, mismanagement and misinformation are only the beginnings of our new Digital Atlantis. The radio sings: Barricade your hardware before you disappear. Scan your [[soul|New Time Lapse in Reverse]] shadow into the new now. Remember yourself, you don’t want to be forgotten in [[cyberspace|Ego, Incorporated]]. Do you know how [[this|Cyberspace]] works?

Silent freeways lead to nowhere in the cold outside as giant automobiles turn into listless steel statues. I sit similarly, virtually [[floating|Goodall]] from one here to another, from one now to the next now. Thank you for the time, but it doesn't hold up. I’m sick. The [[robot radio operator|Radio Song]] speaks of barricades and of the soul, a new religion. I’m sick—human animal—the last goodbye before dreams of [[revolution|Revolution]] disappear across a screen.

Zoom! Zoom! Zoom in! Take your mouse and click this or that and use your physical hands to link to here or to there and spread yourself all throughout this digital web of what was once space and what is now the conquest of corporations. Advertise yourself! You want to be seen? Well, be seen! You are a commercial. It has all lead up to [[this|New Time Lapse in Reverse]]. Your reality is the now sound that echoes through the dead streets. Oh, if only I were a camera I would know everything! If only I were an algorithm, I would be [[you|Algorithm of Us]].

Am I you? Are you listening? I have all day to write and write, but all I manage to do is survive. I see no change ahead. [[This writing|Goodall]] is ugly identity nonsense—the result of Plastic Boredom—a private revolt against an internal/eternal struggle for identity clarification. Typed letters fall from freeway overpasses as more important wars are waged. I see no [[change|Revolution]] ahead.

If the revolution will not be televised, will it be streamed? It is the twenty second month of the Age of Plastic Boredom and these Americans aren't ready for revolution. The sixties failed a long time ago and the punks are nothing more than T-Shirts now—Gimme Shelter or Gimme Danger—Johnny: You may as well have a good time now you rotten pistol, neither god nor the queen can save us now. It is the twenty second month of the Age of Plastic Boredom and the flag projected on the screens of the hive mind goo of this nation state is the stitched together bodies of forgotten revolutionaries. I've forgotten [[myself|Flesh]]. What is survival and who is allowed to survive and who [[decides|Theory]] who is allowed to survive?

Survival Theory: Maximize the Hell made Safe—I’m Totaled—I’m Identity—I Lie—I Lie here Naked—I Lie—I Lie here in One Knot—I Lie—I Lie in the Heap of Money Survival—I Lie—Survival Theory: Freeway death—Money survival made us happy—I Lie—I’m Identity—Analog Death is Digital Pleasure—I Feel Much Better—I Lie—[[I|Flesh]]—

The connection to my flesh is unstable. I’m a silly sad word mess strung together of recombinant codes cycled through the mind’s machine of recycled thoughts unoriginal in origin and performance. What was once fire is now flesh and flesh is [[word|Find the Speaker]]. I am made of radioactive language that sprawls all throughout this web of me. It is such pain to spread language. Lonely, there is no end. I am not one, but [[two|Algorithm of Us]]…no, zero! Hack me as your weapon! Use me to spread identity in isolation! Cut my strings into tiny fragments like memories of waiting for change! In the twilight of the great wait—after the eternal confusion—while the heat in the horizon dances—atop the mounds of plastic flesh—there is a hand over us all—is there a [[cure|Confronting Yourself the Radio]]?

Is there anybody out there? Am I all alone in this generation? No, I am all alone in this generator! They are our software robotic retina rocket! Anxiety consumes humanity—a raven is an android—fear is evolution—she or he or they clones her or him or them—Evolve engine voice! Weave our now in electric computer reality! I ask my selves: What does it mean to persist through the days which not even my dreams will allow me to relive? The rotting binary rotating plague is a trajectory of us: Who decides where we go from [[here|Beginning]]?

How can I be claustrophobic in [[cyberspace|Cyberspace]]? This [[House of Mirrors|Find the Speaker]] is a reverberation of the self—echoes full of you and me and everyone we know. No matter where I go there is no escape from isolation. Even the digital has become enclosed. The anxiety of the ego is the malaise of late capitalist libido. Identity is a cracked machine. The strings of my manufactured youth collapse underneath me like capsules of forgotten memories. How did we get here and how do we go [[back|Radio Song]]?

If I could detach from this body, I would not grow another. I would simulate a sapian quite easily—[[digitally|Ego, Incorporated]], it’s no trouble—its almost innate to be an ape and good-for-all I would call myself Jane, Sweet as I am. [[This writing|Algorithm of Us]] does nothing for the novel, but it spins a web for you to [[map|Map]] and in time you’ll circle right [[back|New Time Lapse in Reverse]].

A Lonesome Catharsis. A Digital Remembrance of the [[Old Now|Beginning's Beginning]]. <iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Wjd8u6QDEGI?autoplay=1" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>

I can write and write—so what? [[Flesh]] is word and now I am you. Discover me! Uncover my [[artifacts|Goodall]]. I’m lost and cold—please, I’m sick and where are you? Now is where? I don’t know—there are no days and time does not hold up in the twenty second month of the Age of Plastic Boredom—the radio is our enemy. Forget the drones on your eyelids and the static in your head. Reach out, there is no escape from the end. Forget the drones on your eyelids and the bombs in your head. Reach out, there is no escape from the end. Forget the drones on your eyelids and the echo in your head. Reach out, there is no escape from the end. Forget the drones on your eyelids and the clones in your head. Reach out, there is no end. Please call out and I will answer—here we go again in a new way and in a new now—find me waiting, buried under the freeways and waste of countless apathetic generations—here you are, please uncover the so what of this spew—resist the hive mind goo—here you are, resist the spew of the so what—here you are, ugly identity screaming—resist the money survival—here you are in our new digital now—[[House of Mirrors|Ego, Incorporated]]—here you are and here I am and here is everyone we know—[[resist|Revolution]].

The space where you disappear, you begin childhood the day your body dies. Nothing is solid. Nothing can be stored in my brain for long. Weak hands typing howl out against the skeletal scratched plague. Nova death chain is our universe, spreading the hive mind goo through [[radio frequencies|Radio Song]]. Infecting identity—hallowed out—connected through disconnection. I’m cracked and sick. Nothing is solid. Nothing can be stored in my brain for long.