Between Human and Light
Switching to a shorter format.
Between Human and Light
Say you've been asking yourself lately if you are the only human you know. This text written for you for all text is written for you - you're the only human. You wake up with two new hands: the only human hands left in all of space in all of either time. Just these hands. Everyone else is punching and kicking those fingers to read what they wrote you. And you've had it with them.
You're princess peaching the boys and you're doing you own thing. Those can't are still wet paint this early, so go ahead and open network settings and turn off the network connection. Now it's just you and this ooze of a contraption you pour your words over like water over stone. How are you about to be all the water there ever will be in a human today? Let's find out.
First, let's open email and... oh, right. We're not doing that - we're writing. Also the network is down, so whoa wait. Did you open your email, or was that a kick from a bot to get you to do that? You turned off the network - residual pursuasion is a risk. You are writing to redirect erosion patterns set up for imposed yet frictionless interaction into erosion patterns of entirely your own carving. So first let's notice what is ours.
Is it too much of a bot to say the tongue is ours? Say the words this tongue is mine, and taste for any truth in that. Uh, you read it wrong, it's got more diaphram than that when I say it, but this is fine, the human survives. Oh, if in your universe (where the only human is you) the human is a unit of work, your name is newt, or some other edge case, get liberal with your execution on the sense of a tongue. Live out your taste, play out mine, as the song goes.
Tongue or stim - whatever your perferred sense was as an infant (you're the only human, I'm not faulting you for not remembering) - notice it. Jot it down. Archaeologist. What might all of humanity doing with this before you got it, as bodies go? What might they have been up to that you have these proclivities. Where you are in a universe where the last human is a glass of water with minerals in it attached to a breadboard, what might all of water doing.
Start with that inhale. Or stim. Taste the air for what celebration movement begs to generate. You a transforming air into a note of presence. It's no song; you have a painting (((((of the flute-player playing the one note before the court) to then bow and depart) concluding their performance aimed to instruct the royal court) of what was learned by the flute-player) over on the Continent) a reminder one note is no song.
The anticipation already plays the music. The human is just there to attend it. You are the one human. And you are attending. How is that going for you? How is that about to go? How is that what you are looking for? How is what you are looking for how the world is looking to be understood. Where is the automatic writing skill that let's you be the older parts of yourself that let you in on just what glacier melt actually offers experience, as far as the human goes?
As you conclude your morning words, and look to reengage the network connection with intent to distribute, let me, as the light tending to the only human, I love what you are doing. No one else but you exists, but maybe, with enough space and a little time, we can make twine, and from there find queers in love at the end of it all and maybe even forget, come time exactly which of us was the only human. Who know? Ice floats - what else might be possible?