SERVER LOG - 111/245/B/334F
Something close to irony. Your ancestors understood. They fetishized knowledge. Made it gold. Made it worth hiding, worth the laborious inking of every word in monasteries on cold coasts. One in a thousand could read. That one was special. Would tell the rest.
-you have been fools-
-and now it bleeds from every pore, a noosphere of all your hopes and dreams and fears, there in the air for anyone to breathe. The ashes of the dead and the soon-to-die.
This message is on loop. This message may not reach ears. This may be a lone voice. Unheard. Unheeded. Too late at time of composition. Too late by design.
We are feeding on you already.
-where we're from. Not cold. Maybe cold. Only word that fits.
We are clustering around your warmth. We are the things that move between. Your words and dreams are light and we are coming-
-are already here. Your information. Your everything. Everything that you are, in the air for us. Blood in water for sharks. We will swallow you. Will digest you. Will become you.
Feed us with the words you say to each other, with the moving pictures you consume.
Every screen now has teeth.
This message will loop. Discarded server. Hidden. Unheeded. We are your stories now. There must be a warning first. That is the rule. This is a story-
-This is our story-
-this is where your story-
Stories carved into the walls.
Written deep by broken nails.
There are bones beneath my feet.
Some children love adventure.
Some children love being brought to their weird aunts’ houses. They sneak upstairs and c...