Community

Community is the waste heat of bodies rubbing together.

Subtle algorithmic tuning

"I fear the subtle algorithmic tuning of feeds more than I fear blatant dark ads. It used to be impossible to send customized messages to millions of people instantly. It used to be impossible to test and design multitudes of customized messages, based on detailed observation and feedback from unknowing people who are kept under constant surveillance.

"It might turn out that a certain font around someone's portrait on a certain day makes a small percentage of people trust that person just a little less. Maybe the same font showed up in a popular video about an unpleasant topic that same day. No one will ever know why the font has the effect it does, though. It's all statistical." (p. 78)

From Jaron Lanier's "Ten Arguments for Deleting your Social Media Accounts Right Now"

Stars are abscesses upon the skin of our universe.

By invoking a brane metaphor for our universe we can see stars as an abcesses upon that 'skin' or brane. Through it light leaks, which in our universe has the property of energy. But it is a filtered 'bleed through' of a pure idea from another dimension intent upon ordering our universe. In that other dimension all is purely crystalline but its structure is merely a resonance pattern because in this dimension, where idea and substance are coextensive, being and idea are all times and everywhere, always.

The pornographic object

The pornographic object is the pupil.

Recording media turn culture and history into a trash heap. Because it subjects us to peering through a hole in the fence.

It's doing math

pathological electricity

The source of mental illness is pathological electricity. Metaphors born in geometry such as 'symmetry' and 'balance' populate medical literature. Pathological electricity places emphasis on the role that the stimulus, as it lives on, plays in the set up of a mental pathology. Some forms, patterns, and sequences of neuron-specific activity, within the brain's connectome, form sinister geometries. These give rise to what medical literature calls abnormal behavior.

women are arsonists

Women are arsonists. They start fires and simply walk away.

But sometimes that fire grows and grows and transforms into something that could consume them. That something is me, watching you, your every move, listening to your steps, peeking into your life every chance I can, watching, waiting, listening, an unceasing fire, unceasing desire.

You. You started this fire. Maybe it was with a look or maybe it was something you said. Did you say 'love?' Why do you use these words so carelessly? I've never known a love such as this. I burn. I desire.

I am this fire you started. I am consumed by this fire. It grows. I'm gone now. The charred remains of what I once was are all that remain, a memory, the trust that you once had, it's gone. You fear me. You should fear fire. It's an awesome and destructive force, but it's something that could be controlled. Instead you lit a match and simply walked away. You played with fire. Now that game is over, yet the fire grows and grows, burning and burning, smoke billows out. You ignore the destruction that you've caused. You pretend that you've done nothing wrong, but if the tables were turned it would be my fault. I'd be held accountable for my actions. Not you, no, you can go hide behind that other guy, the one fire that you let keep you warm at night, while this one burns, unattended.

A million scary stories have been told around fires. Nothing is heard around this one but the crackling of a burning desire that burns and burns seemingly endless. You turn away, in hopes that it will simply go out, forever. Instead, this fire is a monument to all that is desired, and so it burns and burns simply to memorialize a moment, simply a moment, when you decided it would be okay to say those things and to look this way in such a way that sparked these embers into a roaring flame of desire. But you walked away, and when confronted, you fear that fire that burns in me. You hide behind another fire, one that burns differently, controlled, just as you want it. This fire is dangerous, you hide behind a traffic cone tossed into a space, interrupted, you talk about your nipple piercing. You place a million other petty desires between us. The fire burns with hate, spurned desire, jealousy.

A fire burns out when it consumes all of its fuel. This fire will not cease until it burns you.