This is what my work kinda looks like after some editoral gnome is done with it. Editors have no reason to live.

“You are not your work. Your work is your work. You and all your second selves are you, and all your second selves.”

“This is one of those tiny little lies we tell ourselves.” That we are not our work. We are not our fucking work. Say it again. If you say it twenty times, it becomes true. I stare out the window because I stare out the window. I have perfected my great stare look. “We are our work.”

Pieces and particles and neurology and quantum fields and all of this is only real when we observe it. The research that will result in connecting quantum theory with neurological receptor sites has not even begun. The electrical net inside our brains, magnetized, begins to resemble the aurora borealis. We are not ahead of ourselves. Or even color. Is the mirror in a darkened room still a mirror. We are our second selves. We are the people and things we can remember. How many dimensions are there. Three. Four. A hundred thousand. Parallelism is not uniformity, symmetry, or existence. It is an illusion. Quantom computing drives the sharing of information within the illusion that the electron can be frozen in place, and in a vacuum, but there is no such thing as frozen in place, the electron is itself, and as such is interacting with entropy.

What we refer to (because we don’t know what else to call it) as dark energy has to be the energy of empty space itself. 

There is no such thing as empty space. There is only nearly empty space. Its second selves are all of the particles and fragments that constitute matter – quarks, electrons, photons or Higgs bosons, all of which can be regarded as merely localised excitations of these quantom fields like waves on the surface of the ocean.

If you stand in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, does that mean the Pacidic Ocean isn’t real.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this. But. Yes.”

“If the words in a book are blotted out, it is still a book.”

“Only to the person who wrote it. Stupid wretches. Writers do have reasons to live. In revenge, to see the day when blotting you out becomes existential.