The violet eye of your black box never ceasing its recording may delimit your ability to navigate the dream of the future. Replaying scenes of your life after the plane crash in the aspen forest will only amount to a stronger belief in the clawed hand of fate: an wholly other force beyond your own free-will. That as the black box records it seals, and seals more than prior to, but even begins to induct the soon-to-be in the fixed and eternal simulation. Reviewing the videotape of things said on the balcony of the hotel room where your love and you have laid in a soviet hotel on the south coast of Cuba overlooking the dark Caribbean’ll wickedly predetermine your present mode more than seems credible. It is difficult to realize how rote and programmatic your love-life may once have been. Even so, the dream of futurity in which you are more conscious, in which you have more agency, is a good and necessary dream.
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