the subtle process of becoming machine ... the agony of the network of those who sit in front of their monitors ... synchronized: the hands touching their keyboards are marching like those soldiers in pre-war berlin. i wish i was disconnected i wish i trusted my senses i wish all the letters flooding my head.disorg disappeared i wish my movement was invisible i wish i could see everything that makes me visible i wish i could implant amnesia into this technology just to make all my traces sand in dunes. like the one who
is able to dream about the butterfly sunken in the realm of unheard frequencies.
::: here come the aliens we’re the aliens we’re the failing ones :::
