words
the fake writer eases into a folding chair and begins tapping after pulling up his left sock. the lines outside were growing longer as he wondered how much time he had left. in the long hallway of his dusty recollection, imaginary conversations arose regarding the amount of understanding required to process a shouting mob (of anyone) as any sort of encouragement, how certain handlers of any pop phenomenon would toil and craft a stately frame for the perception of appeal. understanding may have been the best word he knew for the phenomenon but it was quickly chosen and didn't suit the views of any number, real or not, of imaginary perceivers.
[not you, of course, i'd not suggest it.]
a robotic walking antique cellular telephone repeats the same dull passage for any vagrant lost enough to end up in the museum of anti-technology: "the mechanism of manual speech has altered little in time, post clay's unfortunate demise to more combustible papyrus. unlike tracing moist clay, the keyboard mechanism promotes a very useful mindset for mill-workers and field-hands by serializing language in the form of a mindless repetitive task as easily supervised as the result. strict interpretation of High Code glyphs results in a more perfect implementation of the Code" which sort of trails off in the low frequencies seven words in from the middle and echoes down the concrete tunnel, being loud enough to make the three hour walk less uneventful. the imaginary author rolls two die six and successfully detects the hidden trap door leading to the first save point.
[please take a moment to determine your position within this text here.]
the museums display consisted of the physical remnants of the previous era's corporate structure validating itself in print, poster, billboard, and thought-virus alike, detailing the only known rebuttal to the end of the universe presented in architectural form, wired for sound-tubes and lit from every angle with a space hobbit's finest lasercandles. (the term for the device was known nebula-wide as the fittest hit to stoke any imaginary textualizer's bongo gourd). Mostly inert, the displays sprang to full spectacular effect sequentially as a stray dog loped orthogonally after a rat more tangible than any of the toxic displays. even the dog knew better than to hunt here, as the displays from the 2070s had subsonic partials at the exact resonant frequency of his tail, which led to fun but mostly a vicious pursuit. the era's head zippers launched massive enthusiastic battles on the minor planets to celebrate their achievement of such a heady end and managed an utter defeat of the abandoned machinery nearby. (the last recorded mention of anyone questioning the utility of the Code was after such a battle on Mu-Mu [make up your own spacedate])
a knock sounded on the fourth wall and he rose to face it.
he panicked, fearing the buildup of useless threads could result in no coherent theme that he'd planned from the start, save for the tacky (and not to mention purely theorized) narrator. the door, ahead of him, towered monolithically over his lenten twain, leading only to a perfectly spherical room.
he was headed two-ard room O.
the message that had arrived that morning outlined in 23 brief pages the breadth and severity of posting guidelines he'd failed to negotiate before launching the effort controlled from the sphere's control rails. none of the authors or programs the missives hied from could help but picture the tubular chrome positioners as massive implements of their doom, presumably, but of course the sort of better sense official letter writers steep in prevented any such glimmer of reality from surfacing on the hyperpaper. that his timing was good was only part of the problem, it was instead an issue of his shabby molecular manifestation at guild functions. sometimes admirals just don't understand.
[not you, of course, i'd not suggest it.]
a robotic walking antique cellular telephone repeats the same dull passage for any vagrant lost enough to end up in the museum of anti-technology: "the mechanism of manual speech has altered little in time, post clay's unfortunate demise to more combustible papyrus. unlike tracing moist clay, the keyboard mechanism promotes a very useful mindset for mill-workers and field-hands by serializing language in the form of a mindless repetitive task as easily supervised as the result. strict interpretation of High Code glyphs results in a more perfect implementation of the Code" which sort of trails off in the low frequencies seven words in from the middle and echoes down the concrete tunnel, being loud enough to make the three hour walk less uneventful. the imaginary author rolls two die six and successfully detects the hidden trap door leading to the first save point.
[please take a moment to determine your position within this text here.]
the museums display consisted of the physical remnants of the previous era's corporate structure validating itself in print, poster, billboard, and thought-virus alike, detailing the only known rebuttal to the end of the universe presented in architectural form, wired for sound-tubes and lit from every angle with a space hobbit's finest lasercandles. (the term for the device was known nebula-wide as the fittest hit to stoke any imaginary textualizer's bongo gourd). Mostly inert, the displays sprang to full spectacular effect sequentially as a stray dog loped orthogonally after a rat more tangible than any of the toxic displays. even the dog knew better than to hunt here, as the displays from the 2070s had subsonic partials at the exact resonant frequency of his tail, which led to fun but mostly a vicious pursuit. the era's head zippers launched massive enthusiastic battles on the minor planets to celebrate their achievement of such a heady end and managed an utter defeat of the abandoned machinery nearby. (the last recorded mention of anyone questioning the utility of the Code was after such a battle on Mu-Mu [make up your own spacedate])
a knock sounded on the fourth wall and he rose to face it.
he panicked, fearing the buildup of useless threads could result in no coherent theme that he'd planned from the start, save for the tacky (and not to mention purely theorized) narrator. the door, ahead of him, towered monolithically over his lenten twain, leading only to a perfectly spherical room.
he was headed two-ard room O.
the message that had arrived that morning outlined in 23 brief pages the breadth and severity of posting guidelines he'd failed to negotiate before launching the effort controlled from the sphere's control rails. none of the authors or programs the missives hied from could help but picture the tubular chrome positioners as massive implements of their doom, presumably, but of course the sort of better sense official letter writers steep in prevented any such glimmer of reality from surfacing on the hyperpaper. that his timing was good was only part of the problem, it was instead an issue of his shabby molecular manifestation at guild functions. sometimes admirals just don't understand.
--
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