“I tried to uninstall consciousness,” Jim muttered, his eyes flat—rendered without specular mapping, glassy from frame-rate decay. “Didn’t take.” He sounded like someone who had run too many diagnostics on his own mind and found the root directory encrypted by something older than memory.
All week, the residents anticipate Saturday night, when a dog will play guitar for us. There is no greater celebrity than this dog.
She is hungry for blood and dirt, not the cold stone walls or the warm spring pools where she bathes, or even the sweet perfumes her maidservants comb into her inevitably long, inevitably blonde hair. She is told she is beautiful so many times she does not know who she is.
They smile and touch my hair, I am an entire potentiality of fingertips and cleverness and I lust with the hugeness of all my doings. Their eye glitters with more mischief than an entire sack of stolen jewels.
Even now, I don’t think he can articulate how he knew that computers would be so magical. Maybe it was just that his dad liked them, and at this early age, cubsfan85 wanted to be like his dad. But personally, what I think it was is he could sense the vibrations of his future. His entire life unfolding from that single point in time.
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