They freed the weed. I read it in the papers, the virtual papers, papers on screen, dancing in under 2 minutes is a thing, watch me, listen, our culture reduced to munching on a thousand half-eaten bags of snacks, seeing our tribal lives from behind the blinds.
They "freed" the weed. They released it onto industrial economics, the science of min/max, min/max as a way of knowing, interfacing, turning everything into its 'essence' and then belching out the waste through large pipes, and we, repurposing this economic effluent, making a culture of the underbelly of Big Pot. Big Pot, meet Big Sugar, harbinger of African wage theft, maker of confections, the harvest of crystals for pleasure, written in the hieratic whip scars on Haitian-African backs.
We're all in a big pot. Data[based] entities. We're being interfaced, fitted as you will, with scalar economics, a new language for a big old thing, size is everything, numbers go up, freedom in the equation, being a Greek symbol, thinking within, dreaming within, a new, crystalline infinity of wonder and numbers, and we're the topographical entities, sorted, searched, matched, predicted, reduced to the statistical, a formless mass entity, placed into differential equations, to be is to be measured, when you say you "count," you are being counted, nonetheless.
They freed the weed and made it a business, the business of measurement pervades a substance sought for its nootropical abilities, us, the wanderers from warmth, the seekers of new, invented by hunger, continuously short-selling the laws of thermodynamics for present gain, sustenance, negation of negation, praxis, love, God, the higher symbol, all to create a now in all its full efflorescence that wouldn't exist otherwise. We are Maxwell's Demon, a mythical Pegasus of 'as if' and 'right fucking now,' acting purposefully, siloed within the limits of physics and time, time that fucking bitch. At some point in the big bang, the white light of information denseness coalesced briefly into a ball of rapidly ordering consciousness, yes, consciousness is within the explosion of hot plasma as it crackles through this universe, and into us with every mental spark, the biomolecular harvest of the plasma potential propagated within the safe and tidy confines of the warm and wet slurry of life itself. To consider the nervous impulse as a simple stimulus-response loop, which itself became a way to count, unitize, bracket time, based in the spark, the propagation of plasma through artificial ion concentrations held behind the selective membrane of a cell, chaos rules, the entity within is the entity without, we are the universe's bleeding heart, crying in pain from its birth, until the moment the confines of its existence cease and it falls back within itself to a yawning nothingness known from within the space that defined its existence, now elsewhere, gone for a while, bye.
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