People from the future are stupid. They must know what happened. Not to lecture, but countless misconceptions always arise when the subject tiringly turns back to time. To summarize the position of the post-quantal school of psycho-physicists: it could be said that time slices, and time is also a slice. When the subject turns to time, making a slice, a piece gets lopped off, like cutting off a fingertip while dicing vegetables, it’s self-inflicted. Juice and widely quoted proclamations chopped up in dozens of dead languages wet the butcher’s apron with runny antimatter, the yolk of origins. Try to repair the parts and recreate the whole, but it’s an exercise that’s both cosmic and futile. I meant to say comic and futile. The future is not a place, as if, upon departing, a senile mode of transportation simply ambles along a path, forgetting events while they’re occurring, as the passengers watch their home era recede into the distance. No, the future unrolls if it goes back. The universe is the highest grade fiberoptic line we could afford on our veteran discount, but time reverts to analog VHS tape when idiots mash buttons on the controller’s controls. The rich try anyway, believing that time travel is an affordable way to take advantage of monetary inflation. “The past is so cheap!” is their way of thinking, dumping trillions into pre-paid debit cards that are unusable in Periclean Greece or in Han dynasty China or in Tutankhamen Egypt or in Zuckerbergian America.
We struggled as we walked, coughing terribly at times, our eyes dry and burning. A drug named Alice, administered with an eyedropper to the tear ducts, brought some small relief, moistening our eyes and bathing everything in a sullen green glow, eliminating the need for further use of our lamps, which we snuffed out accordingly. We continued quietly, passing one abandoned house after another, their thatched roofs caved in, large portions crumbled away. Stopping to look at one, I kicked a support post; it broke apart like a piece of balsa wood, exploding into a cloud of dirt, the awning it supported quickly collapsing onto the ground, forcing us both to dive out of the way to safety. Further along down the trail, far off in the distance at an elevation a great deal higher from where we were, we could see a green glow, emanating from somewhere off in the forest. Alice guided us toward it, intensifying our experience the closer we got to the septic pallor shining through the trees. In the forest, the air grew even thicker with dust and particulate, leaving a thin film of dirt upon our skin. Our partner and their appearance gave us a start—it was as if they were covered in mud—and for a moment we stopped and stared. Alice intensified the experience, making them appear as some nightmarish figure that’d risen out of the ground. Suddenly, they began to cough uncontrollably, and a cloud of neon-green dust erupted from their throat, spreading out into the hot night air.
Zig is a quantum being. He [is/is not] in Astoria, Queens… now! He lingers. He perseveres. [She/he] reads your mind. You read [his/hers]. Entanglement. String theory. Zig theory. No theory. We just are. The Machine must be kept running. So we are taught since birth. Obey.
Cosmic explosions on the edge of the Observable Universe. Intergalactic civilizations plan their attack. We barely keep it together. Implosions. Sinkholes.
SF at its finest. She gets my ass out of yoga pants. We summit Orgasm Peak.
Zoë opens her eyes. I am you. I am here. There are thirteen control rooms in the metropolis. Watching us. All of us. Be alert in your surroundings … invisible environments. Steel staircases. Concrete rooms. Thirteen-feet high. The far wall. The opposite wall. A brutalist concrete structure with dome windows. Peak into the labyrinth. Peek into the peephole. Your entire existence is an oscillation. Peaks & troughs. I see it all. You see it all.
Morning arrives. Briefly and succinctly, we fuck. Electronic brain. Zoë & Zig.
Zoë was a real thigh-slapper. She liked to be on top. She liked to be on all fours. And Zig? Zig liked what Zoë liked. Impossible to tell them apart.
Even though the Impossible Whopper was probably conceived in a lab by a mad cow diseased scientist, I’ve recently exhausted all my go-to DoorDash options from the comfort of my couch and have turned into a total pile of methane gas trapped trash, so—I figured it was time to try something different and get some fresh air, which is when I decided to take matters into my own unsanitized hands by jumping on the anti-cattle rancher bandwagon on my way to a Burger King drive-thru (while their spurious livestock supplies lasted), especially after seeing their gratuitously ramped up commercial campaigns that have been prodding me for a seemingly unending number of months now.
One of the perks of the Impossible Whopper is the feeling you get from helping the environment by reducing your carbon footprint, so after putting the pedal to the metal in my gas guzzling Tin Lizzie and driving halfway across the county to the closest kingdom of what I was craving, I all-of-a-sudden found myself in the queue. Then, once I realized the grave mistake I was making, I burned rubber by trying to back out, but somebody had pulled up behind me, and I was trapped. Like a free-range farm cow, my fate was sealed.
As I approached the drive-through window, I was hoping to see the plant-based pop cultural icon Snoop Dogg, and fantasized about asking him if the flame-grilled to perfection anti-bovine incarnations cooked on the same flattop as their beefy stepbrothers were as divine as the O.G. Whoppers, with him then giving me his classic, cute little high as hell smile and resounding, “Yeah, dog, they’re fire!” But instead I got some miserable, subhuman, Sub-Zero face masked looking adolescent cash register character, and when I asked him if the Impossible Whooper was any good, his eyes slightly opened and rolled in a weird way, which seemed like his internal monologue was saying something like, “Good god, this poor guy has no idea what he’s about to do.”
Within the polygraphical confinements of virtual unrest, pastel washed cognitive
beams attempt to penetrate the threshold of ennui. Virtual intoxication gestates for
an unforeseen amount of time. Constantly shifting, a rotating blur barrel
disorienting the cortex into a convoluted mirage of fragmented personas.