Eros,
I think my favorite thing about living so long has been watching the evolution of the plane. I remember the old passenger jumbo jets. No leg space, a reclining chair with a DVD (holy cannoli, DVD!) player tucked into the headrest of the person in front of you. Economy class. Gosh-as if that could ever exist today! So here I am, with thirty minutes to kill before my stream jet plane lands, comparing and contrasting what immortal people must inevitably compare and contrast: plane seats. I'm getting a massage. I can order food in my brain. I've got my own personal restroom. I can recline. I can get up and go to the bar. I can go to the movie theatre. I can exercise. I remember once, in the old days, that they had this program on jumbo jets for people to exercise in their seats. They wanted people to avoid stiffness and seat-ass. If only flights lasted that long anymore! But if I need to use this one hour flight from New York to Europe just to exercise, I could. I'm using the time to write to you, instead. I always write on planes; it's just an old habit, and they sure do die hard.
I'm meeting my surgeon today, a Dr. Malin Twinn. He's going to operate on my brain. Brain surgery is one of the only kinds of surgery I can't ever feel comfortable with. My memories are the only thing that keep me here. The surgery is going to replace almost half of the dead tissue I've had up there for the past number of years. I'm afraid of the ensuing weeks. For the first time, I'll be existing with huge portions of my brain totally gone. And then in three weeks, my new brain tissue will have been grown, and they'll install a new microchip for my memories, and then they'll operate on me again, and well-ah! I've got a fresh set of brain matter. I just can't fathom what could happen if something went wrong. Certainly not death. Thats impossible. I don't even remember what death is, it's so impossible for me. I mean, I guess. I just can't process it, anymore, as something thats real in my life. Immortality, now thats a thought to try and grasp, sometime! Eternity, well, its a long fucking time! But I'm looking forward to it.
I just wish I could have brought Bali. I mean I left him in good hands. The doggie hotel. But he is the only friend I have. I need him to be okay. I don't know what I'm supposed to do for the next two months without Bali. I'm thinking of having him shipped here. I can't comprehend how mad at me he must be, knowing that I'll be gone. I remember when they thought dogs didn't have emotions. Retards. They knew nothing then. Look how much we know! The more I think about it, the more sure I am. I'll send the money tomorrow, and have Bali shipped. I need him.
Anyway, Eros, I'll write more, soon. We're landing. The clouds have never changed their face. Its nice to be among them again, no matter how brief this visit may be.
-Lynn
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
December 21, 2443 - Belated
Eros,
Sorry for the delay. I gotta get this down, though. I got a dog! Its been, well, years since I had my own dog. Lots and lots of them. Of course it's a boy. I named him Bali. Great Dane. He's brown with a wet black snout and I love him. They say Great Danes only live for around 7 years, their lives in instants. I need Bali in this instant. His warm fuzzy little body, which inevitably will become a gigantic-ly massive body, is keeping my bare legs warm while I write. Every so often, he licks my leg and I kiss his head and we are two organisms unified by a need. So here we are exchanging warmth and energy, satisfying this primal need for warmth and energy, and I suddenly see in this moment that there is nothing more perfect than what simply is. And this is simple, and always will be.
You always see those commercials or movies where some brunette middle-aged woman takes her spouse into the dog store and just "knows" that the fluffy retriever with his fat paws stretched upward in an attempt to get his fluffy face over the wooden pen is "the one" for her. There is this "awwwwww" that escapes her lips and she looks pleadingly at her spouse, warning him that yes, this is now my dog, and you'd do well to buy him for me. And the spouse caves, realizing there is nothing he can to do fight what just is. That bond, that immediate connection with this golden version of man's best friend, truly happens for that brunette woman in one single instant. And it lasts her a lifetime. My connection with Bali was that way, in the store, minus the spouse and brunette hair and golden retriever. Instead I saw this lonely brown Dane, content with himself in his pen, not stretching toward me but waiting patiently for me to pick him up, which I'll bet (if dogs could have journals) he'd have claimed he knew would happpen all along. Because our connection was immediate and timeless and genuine and real.
In this instant, it is Bali and I, and we are just content to be.
Love you, Eros.
-Lynn
Sorry for the delay. I gotta get this down, though. I got a dog! Its been, well, years since I had my own dog. Lots and lots of them. Of course it's a boy. I named him Bali. Great Dane. He's brown with a wet black snout and I love him. They say Great Danes only live for around 7 years, their lives in instants. I need Bali in this instant. His warm fuzzy little body, which inevitably will become a gigantic-ly massive body, is keeping my bare legs warm while I write. Every so often, he licks my leg and I kiss his head and we are two organisms unified by a need. So here we are exchanging warmth and energy, satisfying this primal need for warmth and energy, and I suddenly see in this moment that there is nothing more perfect than what simply is. And this is simple, and always will be.
You always see those commercials or movies where some brunette middle-aged woman takes her spouse into the dog store and just "knows" that the fluffy retriever with his fat paws stretched upward in an attempt to get his fluffy face over the wooden pen is "the one" for her. There is this "awwwwww" that escapes her lips and she looks pleadingly at her spouse, warning him that yes, this is now my dog, and you'd do well to buy him for me. And the spouse caves, realizing there is nothing he can to do fight what just is. That bond, that immediate connection with this golden version of man's best friend, truly happens for that brunette woman in one single instant. And it lasts her a lifetime. My connection with Bali was that way, in the store, minus the spouse and brunette hair and golden retriever. Instead I saw this lonely brown Dane, content with himself in his pen, not stretching toward me but waiting patiently for me to pick him up, which I'll bet (if dogs could have journals) he'd have claimed he knew would happpen all along. Because our connection was immediate and timeless and genuine and real.
In this instant, it is Bali and I, and we are just content to be.
Love you, Eros.
-Lynn
January 29th, 2145
Eros,
I know. I missed a day. I'm sorry. You know that this doesn't happen very often. I was just far too hung over yesterday to even think of picking up a pen. I can't think to write without a pen on a good sturdy piece of paper. I know, the environment and all that, but screens can never replace this feeling.
Anyway, Eros, I went out Wednesday night and I got very, very intoxicated. I don't even remember how I got home from Manhattan, but I got home somehow. I probably took the stream, but who the fuck put me on? I can't remember a thing. My memories stop when I walked through the bathroom doors at Wave to reapply some lipstick. I vaguely remember that I was making eyes with a short blonde at the hoverbar, and I knew I wanted to dance with her. I must have danced with someone, because I looked in the mirror yesterday morning and that lipstick reapplication was smeared across my cheek. There was a number for Wynona synced to my mobile. I won't call. I hope it was her, though, and not someone I'd regret remembering.
I spent all of yesterday on a blue couch that was not my own. I was too hung over to be alone and so I went over to Talula's house. Its comforting, for me, to have the relationship with Talula that I do. I can pretend to exist within society when I am with her. I can pretend that I am not 139 years old and that she is not 52. She and I sat together, sipping SwissMiss hot chocolate while she talked to me about her family dramarama. Its such a cruel comfort, to me, that SwissMiss still exists. They even have the little marshmellows, you know the ones, that taste like nothing but are integral to the hot chocolate process. She made me some, and I sat there with her and we talked. The thing about talking to Talula is I don't really have anything to say. She can sit with me and talk and talk and talk and I can listen, chiming in here or there with some nugget of 139 year old advice, and she'll happily take it and pretend that it was from another 52 year old woman on equal ground in this 22nd century. And while I listen to her I can sit in introspected silence, remembering to regret myself. So while Talula told me about her mother's sister-in-law (divorce) who'd filed suit against her brother for wrongful repossession of a dog named (how fucking original) Spot, I thought of Liam.
I've known I should stop thinking of Liam. I've tried. You know how hard it is for me. But its like he still exists. And so I catch the eye of short blonde girls at the hoverbar and see an opportunity to break my bonds with a dead man. One I'm in love with still, who I know exists in some plane of time and loves me still, too. I wish I could just reach into that plane and hold his hand, the only hand left in time that is familiar to me anymore, since my two are long gone, replaces by some dead woman's twelve years ago. He should get mad, right? For cheating. Because it's what I am doing. I'm cheating on a dead man. Loving Liam, well, its timeless, but I'm still alive and he is dead. So what am I supposed to do, but have lesbian sex with a short blonde girl from the hoverbar? And hope that just for one night, I forgot to remember him and his hands that I wish would trace the length of my spine and justify the chills that I get when I remember that once, it was true. An x and a y on an axis, but I've left and gone to z. There is no backwards, Eros. Only z.
-Lynn
I know. I missed a day. I'm sorry. You know that this doesn't happen very often. I was just far too hung over yesterday to even think of picking up a pen. I can't think to write without a pen on a good sturdy piece of paper. I know, the environment and all that, but screens can never replace this feeling.
Anyway, Eros, I went out Wednesday night and I got very, very intoxicated. I don't even remember how I got home from Manhattan, but I got home somehow. I probably took the stream, but who the fuck put me on? I can't remember a thing. My memories stop when I walked through the bathroom doors at Wave to reapply some lipstick. I vaguely remember that I was making eyes with a short blonde at the hoverbar, and I knew I wanted to dance with her. I must have danced with someone, because I looked in the mirror yesterday morning and that lipstick reapplication was smeared across my cheek. There was a number for Wynona synced to my mobile. I won't call. I hope it was her, though, and not someone I'd regret remembering.
I spent all of yesterday on a blue couch that was not my own. I was too hung over to be alone and so I went over to Talula's house. Its comforting, for me, to have the relationship with Talula that I do. I can pretend to exist within society when I am with her. I can pretend that I am not 139 years old and that she is not 52. She and I sat together, sipping SwissMiss hot chocolate while she talked to me about her family dramarama. Its such a cruel comfort, to me, that SwissMiss still exists. They even have the little marshmellows, you know the ones, that taste like nothing but are integral to the hot chocolate process. She made me some, and I sat there with her and we talked. The thing about talking to Talula is I don't really have anything to say. She can sit with me and talk and talk and talk and I can listen, chiming in here or there with some nugget of 139 year old advice, and she'll happily take it and pretend that it was from another 52 year old woman on equal ground in this 22nd century. And while I listen to her I can sit in introspected silence, remembering to regret myself. So while Talula told me about her mother's sister-in-law (divorce) who'd filed suit against her brother for wrongful repossession of a dog named (how fucking original) Spot, I thought of Liam.
I've known I should stop thinking of Liam. I've tried. You know how hard it is for me. But its like he still exists. And so I catch the eye of short blonde girls at the hoverbar and see an opportunity to break my bonds with a dead man. One I'm in love with still, who I know exists in some plane of time and loves me still, too. I wish I could just reach into that plane and hold his hand, the only hand left in time that is familiar to me anymore, since my two are long gone, replaces by some dead woman's twelve years ago. He should get mad, right? For cheating. Because it's what I am doing. I'm cheating on a dead man. Loving Liam, well, its timeless, but I'm still alive and he is dead. So what am I supposed to do, but have lesbian sex with a short blonde girl from the hoverbar? And hope that just for one night, I forgot to remember him and his hands that I wish would trace the length of my spine and justify the chills that I get when I remember that once, it was true. An x and a y on an axis, but I've left and gone to z. There is no backwards, Eros. Only z.
-Lynn
Friday, February 25, 2011
January 27th, 2145
Eros,
You know? I'm feeling kind of wild, today. Essentially, I'm 30 years old. Again. I've got the body, the stamina, the mind, the will, of someone thats 30. Why me? You know? Why do I get a second chance? I don't deserve it. I've never done anything worth it. But here it is, and I feel like a trillion bucks. Like a gabrillion bucks.
Today, I went running. My replacement leg, my donor leg, is perfection. Sure, there are some unsightly scars. But thats nothing another surgery in a month or two can't fix. So I threw on my shortest pair of shorts and I ran along the boardwalk. Three times. Six miles. And it felt great. The wind, it seems, always feels the same. No matter whose skin you're wearing.
So tonight, to celebrate my new perfect leg, I'm going to go dancing. Like I'm 30. Hopefully most of the younger crowd won't pay attention to the news. Hopefully I can get into the bar and dance my face off and hopefully none of these youngsters will have a single clue that yeah, I'm over 100 years old. But really, I'm only 30. I'm young again, Eros. Or maybe I was always, and just needed the right body. But I remember feeling old, so screw that.
I'm putting on makeup as I write this. I'm making my young, pulled, stretched back face look even more young. Maybe no one will bother to look at my eyes. Those, I'm afraid, I'll never get to look right. Not young. They've seen too much, too many days, to ever look young again. I guess I'll just have to replace them altogether, instead of fix them. Young eyes, now that would be a feat!
I'm going vintage. Relive the old days, I guess, with my outfit. Some heels that purr. These kids don't understand the value of a good pair of leopard print pumps. But I can dance with 100 years of experience. They can't. So let them say what they say about my heels. I'll ram one up their ass. They don't get it. Watch me make out with a twenty four year old boy. He'll be none the wiser. He'll never know I'm older than he is, five times over. He'll never even see my face. But shit, accomplishment for me!!!!
Eros, I wish you were here with me tonight. I mean, I guess you are. But, you, physically, just to see me and know that I rule the world. Because tonight, with my new leg whose scars are now covered in a layer of very old fishnet stockings, well, it proves that I'm invincible.
-Lynn
You know? I'm feeling kind of wild, today. Essentially, I'm 30 years old. Again. I've got the body, the stamina, the mind, the will, of someone thats 30. Why me? You know? Why do I get a second chance? I don't deserve it. I've never done anything worth it. But here it is, and I feel like a trillion bucks. Like a gabrillion bucks.
Today, I went running. My replacement leg, my donor leg, is perfection. Sure, there are some unsightly scars. But thats nothing another surgery in a month or two can't fix. So I threw on my shortest pair of shorts and I ran along the boardwalk. Three times. Six miles. And it felt great. The wind, it seems, always feels the same. No matter whose skin you're wearing.
So tonight, to celebrate my new perfect leg, I'm going to go dancing. Like I'm 30. Hopefully most of the younger crowd won't pay attention to the news. Hopefully I can get into the bar and dance my face off and hopefully none of these youngsters will have a single clue that yeah, I'm over 100 years old. But really, I'm only 30. I'm young again, Eros. Or maybe I was always, and just needed the right body. But I remember feeling old, so screw that.
I'm putting on makeup as I write this. I'm making my young, pulled, stretched back face look even more young. Maybe no one will bother to look at my eyes. Those, I'm afraid, I'll never get to look right. Not young. They've seen too much, too many days, to ever look young again. I guess I'll just have to replace them altogether, instead of fix them. Young eyes, now that would be a feat!
I'm going vintage. Relive the old days, I guess, with my outfit. Some heels that purr. These kids don't understand the value of a good pair of leopard print pumps. But I can dance with 100 years of experience. They can't. So let them say what they say about my heels. I'll ram one up their ass. They don't get it. Watch me make out with a twenty four year old boy. He'll be none the wiser. He'll never know I'm older than he is, five times over. He'll never even see my face. But shit, accomplishment for me!!!!
Eros, I wish you were here with me tonight. I mean, I guess you are. But, you, physically, just to see me and know that I rule the world. Because tonight, with my new leg whose scars are now covered in a layer of very old fishnet stockings, well, it proves that I'm invincible.
-Lynn
Thursday, February 24, 2011
June 8th, 2253
Eros,
So I guess I'm kind of famous. I knew I was, I guess, but its just so much more...real...today. I think. I don't know. I can't explain it. It just really came over me today after I heard from Dr. Hemi. He called this morning to make sure I was onboard. Duh! Thats not even a question anymore. He gave me all the details about who'll be in the room, whose performing, etc. etc., and at this point its so routine I don't care what the fuck. But I did register during our convo that this apparently monumental surgery is being broadcast, live, with those weirdo eye-cameras. At one point a long, long time ago, that would have freaked me out beyond comprehension. And I guess today it really clicked that I know I'm famous and that I'm part of changing the world, in a changing world, and that history will write about me and my story and it will be important for whatever future generations come along and say, hey science, I'm gonna change you all over again. And I'll be there watching it all, always a part of history, but with the experience of history. Valued. And I was thinking all that after Dr. Hemi told me about the broadcast because I'm so famous that people actually want to watch me get cut open and operated on. We're all a bunch of sick fucks, us people.
I'm getting my new liver today. The surgery shouldn't take all that long, at least according to Hemi. I'm not worried. Christ, I've been through so many now, I can't even count them. It's impossible to be worried. I look down and there are barely any parts of the original left. And here I go to replace the second liver I've ever had. I remember when I found out they'd finally been able to grow one. No more donor organs for me. Maybe eventually I'll never need donors again, even for limbs, and will be able to look down at myself and not see all these pieces of dead people sewn onto my body. At this point, I guess its debatable whether its even my body or not. But to parts that were all grown? Or made in a lab somehow? That'd be cool.
The press is going to write another story. I still can't grasp the idea of those eyeball cameras. It gives me the creeps in such a hardcore way. They just think "picture" and their memory chips register their entire field of vision as a picture. Memory chips. In brains. Unlimited storage for recollection. How did that ever happen? So all these people will just be in my operation room, blinking, blinking, recording, blinking, and blam! my insides are broadcast all over the world. Because the world loves me. Because I'm interesting. Because I'll never die. Because I'm rich.
I guess I'm kind of resolved to the fact that I'll never have another friend, namely because people are scared to connect with me. I'm immortal. But reporters will talk to me, at length, asking the same questions because they want to get to know me. My personality, they think, will give their stories some "oomf". If only they knew how much bullshit I feed them.
This liver will live for, they say, at least 50 years. Thats good. I won't have to get this procedure again for a solid 50. I'm starting to wonder what 50 more years will feel like. Maybe only 25. And who knows what other things will need replacing in that stretch? I can already feel my spine starting to bend. I've been trying to hold off for that metal skeleton. Never having to replace my bones again? Hemi would love that. He's my favorite doctor so far. Except, of course, Frank. He is one of those people I never forget to miss. I wonder if I should even call him a doctor? Ah, Frank, if only you could see how stable I've become. I'm in a good place, Eros, and I think Frank would love to know that. Maybe I'll go visit his grave soon. But knowing myself, I won't. Remembering love is the hardest part about this whole thing. But I can't think about that. I need to focus on having some good energy for this liver. This brand new bad boy liver is gonna make history. The first stem-cell grown liver, successfully transplanted. The heart, the lung, and the tongue. Guinness Book, baby, and no one can EVER beat me. Its impossible. Hemi said I have dibs on that metal skeleton, so here's hoping this good-for-nothing spine holds out til then. He also kind of hinted that I might be on a list for some stem-cell skin. How. Freaking. Awesome.
Eros, you're the only one left that I love.
-Lynn
So I guess I'm kind of famous. I knew I was, I guess, but its just so much more...real...today. I think. I don't know. I can't explain it. It just really came over me today after I heard from Dr. Hemi. He called this morning to make sure I was onboard. Duh! Thats not even a question anymore. He gave me all the details about who'll be in the room, whose performing, etc. etc., and at this point its so routine I don't care what the fuck. But I did register during our convo that this apparently monumental surgery is being broadcast, live, with those weirdo eye-cameras. At one point a long, long time ago, that would have freaked me out beyond comprehension. And I guess today it really clicked that I know I'm famous and that I'm part of changing the world, in a changing world, and that history will write about me and my story and it will be important for whatever future generations come along and say, hey science, I'm gonna change you all over again. And I'll be there watching it all, always a part of history, but with the experience of history. Valued. And I was thinking all that after Dr. Hemi told me about the broadcast because I'm so famous that people actually want to watch me get cut open and operated on. We're all a bunch of sick fucks, us people.
I'm getting my new liver today. The surgery shouldn't take all that long, at least according to Hemi. I'm not worried. Christ, I've been through so many now, I can't even count them. It's impossible to be worried. I look down and there are barely any parts of the original left. And here I go to replace the second liver I've ever had. I remember when I found out they'd finally been able to grow one. No more donor organs for me. Maybe eventually I'll never need donors again, even for limbs, and will be able to look down at myself and not see all these pieces of dead people sewn onto my body. At this point, I guess its debatable whether its even my body or not. But to parts that were all grown? Or made in a lab somehow? That'd be cool.
The press is going to write another story. I still can't grasp the idea of those eyeball cameras. It gives me the creeps in such a hardcore way. They just think "picture" and their memory chips register their entire field of vision as a picture. Memory chips. In brains. Unlimited storage for recollection. How did that ever happen? So all these people will just be in my operation room, blinking, blinking, recording, blinking, and blam! my insides are broadcast all over the world. Because the world loves me. Because I'm interesting. Because I'll never die. Because I'm rich.
I guess I'm kind of resolved to the fact that I'll never have another friend, namely because people are scared to connect with me. I'm immortal. But reporters will talk to me, at length, asking the same questions because they want to get to know me. My personality, they think, will give their stories some "oomf". If only they knew how much bullshit I feed them.
This liver will live for, they say, at least 50 years. Thats good. I won't have to get this procedure again for a solid 50. I'm starting to wonder what 50 more years will feel like. Maybe only 25. And who knows what other things will need replacing in that stretch? I can already feel my spine starting to bend. I've been trying to hold off for that metal skeleton. Never having to replace my bones again? Hemi would love that. He's my favorite doctor so far. Except, of course, Frank. He is one of those people I never forget to miss. I wonder if I should even call him a doctor? Ah, Frank, if only you could see how stable I've become. I'm in a good place, Eros, and I think Frank would love to know that. Maybe I'll go visit his grave soon. But knowing myself, I won't. Remembering love is the hardest part about this whole thing. But I can't think about that. I need to focus on having some good energy for this liver. This brand new bad boy liver is gonna make history. The first stem-cell grown liver, successfully transplanted. The heart, the lung, and the tongue. Guinness Book, baby, and no one can EVER beat me. Its impossible. Hemi said I have dibs on that metal skeleton, so here's hoping this good-for-nothing spine holds out til then. He also kind of hinted that I might be on a list for some stem-cell skin. How. Freaking. Awesome.
Eros, you're the only one left that I love.
-Lynn
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
February 23rd, 3024
Eros,
Its not like I don't know it. I know it. I know everyone else probably knows it. You can't hide that you're a smoker when everyone is judging your smile. I know I look like a fucking monster. I know I am, kind of, a monster. A masochist. A freak. They wonder about me, I know they do, and I wonder about them, because they are all humans and I'm not a human anymore. It makes sense that we'd be curious. They always ask me "What is it like, watching the world evolve and change?" and I wish I cared enough to answer. But, Goddamnit, I don't. Not at all. One of them will invariably say, at some point in the interview, "for all these years" because they want me to talk about each year, each era, one by one. They want my story. But they live so quickly that they can't even see the years have started to stretch. I'm not kidding. The Earth is spinnning slower. I see that. Maybe once, years and years ago, I thought about it. I can't remember that far back anymore. I might once have noticed and needed society. And sure, I can see my physical surroundings. I know them enough to notice how shits changing at a rate that hasn't stopped accelerating. We've hit light speed, folks, and yeah, time definitely slows when you're moving this fast. I don't even feel time anymore. There is that expression, you know the one I mean- Time is a blur. Who said that, anyway? Blurring suggests existence, but there is no such thing as time. So I can't even think about change for these reporters. How could I? Change happens because this thing we know as time has stretched us out and we're forced to try and catch up with our length. Not me, though. Not anymore. Can I change if time doesn't move? For me? I've been affixed. I'm a static fucking conglomeration of these things they call cells, frozen finally, and they've discovered through me that these things they call cells aren't really cells at all, and so I know what I am. I'm a vibration on pause, cause thats all cells are anyway, you know? A zillion different particles that are all supposed to vibrate on different waves of light, just to reflect me. But I'm on pause. We're all descendents of some star that blew the fuck up, and here I am on pause, waiting to blow up, too. I know my nothingness, and its all that nothing that makes me a monster.
-Lynn
Its not like I don't know it. I know it. I know everyone else probably knows it. You can't hide that you're a smoker when everyone is judging your smile. I know I look like a fucking monster. I know I am, kind of, a monster. A masochist. A freak. They wonder about me, I know they do, and I wonder about them, because they are all humans and I'm not a human anymore. It makes sense that we'd be curious. They always ask me "What is it like, watching the world evolve and change?" and I wish I cared enough to answer. But, Goddamnit, I don't. Not at all. One of them will invariably say, at some point in the interview, "for all these years" because they want me to talk about each year, each era, one by one. They want my story. But they live so quickly that they can't even see the years have started to stretch. I'm not kidding. The Earth is spinnning slower. I see that. Maybe once, years and years ago, I thought about it. I can't remember that far back anymore. I might once have noticed and needed society. And sure, I can see my physical surroundings. I know them enough to notice how shits changing at a rate that hasn't stopped accelerating. We've hit light speed, folks, and yeah, time definitely slows when you're moving this fast. I don't even feel time anymore. There is that expression, you know the one I mean- Time is a blur. Who said that, anyway? Blurring suggests existence, but there is no such thing as time. So I can't even think about change for these reporters. How could I? Change happens because this thing we know as time has stretched us out and we're forced to try and catch up with our length. Not me, though. Not anymore. Can I change if time doesn't move? For me? I've been affixed. I'm a static fucking conglomeration of these things they call cells, frozen finally, and they've discovered through me that these things they call cells aren't really cells at all, and so I know what I am. I'm a vibration on pause, cause thats all cells are anyway, you know? A zillion different particles that are all supposed to vibrate on different waves of light, just to reflect me. But I'm on pause. We're all descendents of some star that blew the fuck up, and here I am on pause, waiting to blow up, too. I know my nothingness, and its all that nothing that makes me a monster.
-Lynn
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