America Vicuña hangs by her neck in the permanent shade of the carriage house behind the banana warehouse where no one has found her. What was the matter?
Every target acquires its own mythos. In this way the silent harpoon arcs to the whale.
While scuba diving later on this week be on the look out for fiery eye-contact from a long lost love. “WTF,” will be your initial response, down there in the cool blue reedy dark of the lagoon, startled to see another diver, let alone an ex-lover, emerge from a tower of coral to look you straight in the face-mask with equal surprise and shock.
Unfortunately, after you’ve booked passage on a frigate bound for southern waters in order to avoid what you’re dreading doing, the weather turns violent for days on end and finally the superstitious crew decide to toss you overboard into the roiling hillsides of a ridiculous sea.
Knowing under which floorboards is whose gun projects hypothetical narrative arcs.
Now if a simulated universe is possible in theory then at some point or other us humans will create them—probably a lot of them.
Walking down the dirt road in some middle region of the Russian taiga it’ll begin to rain just as the night falls from the sky. Off through the woods you’ll see the dark eves of a dacha and jogging now you’ll make your way down a rutted path to a low house in the dripping pines.
What a surprise to find out on the internet that you are actually a clone of the true and original you.