/lit/ - Literature

Some people fancy the idea of dying a whole lot, and this leverage is invaluable in tricking people into thinking that there is, at the end of this cragged tunnel, a light. Morrison will tell you, and sometimes his wife and his children:

“There is no light, there is no god. And you’re lucky that buckets of dog shit are only just less interesting than you or we would be toying with them instead. Injecting life in and out of them repeatedly and each time measuring how long it takes them to balance a checkbook, or demograph reception on colorful phonebook advertisements for automobile glass repair!”

Er, ex-wife.
And ex-children.
Since reasonably disowned by either.

Dog shit is capable of no such things. It probably would be however, should it be wrapped in skin and zapped with electricity over and over again.

Anyways,

Evans will have numerous mosfets (secured in the rear of the spinal column) switched off. He will be immobilized and carted off deep into the guts of the facility, strapped on top of a sort of metal gurney designed to fit the contours of most any human body. Evans is then covered with binfulls of sensors and magnets. Some are taped on, some are injected into his veins or fused to his nerves. Next, Morrison will oversee what The Sphere likes to call a “rewrite”, not to be mistaken by an erasure, which removes print entirely. In the end, all the parts are still there, they can just be reassembled into a more convenient configuration, one that uses things like fear and hope more properly.
For instance, Evans used to be afraid of large dogs, because they used to bark ferociously at him from across fences or yards. Now, the motor skills he once used to cower from them will be used to be afraid of human beings with skin of a different color that he would run into every now and then, from across fences and yards. He will pretend to not understand them and have a disgusting curiosity towards their ‘backhanded’ motives and (perceived) secrecies.
According to the itinerary, which Morrison hadn’t bothered to know about, a continent southern bay area city called Portico required more racist individuals to fill its quota to more stable levels. The area had a reputation for such a thing and progressivism wasn’t on the ‘Section Operating Standards’ roster. For now.
Memories of his relatives will have the names and faces all switched around to better match the people he’ll be running into, and asking about the weather, soon enough.
The old Evans will be swept up and dusted into a chute, to be turned into heat energy in the grand furnaces of the Decency Center below that will help keep power in the facility up and running.
“Don’t drop it!” Morrison would deadpan jest from his armchair. “The day death stops taxes is the day that I die!”

1/2

Some people fancy the idea of dying a whole lot, and this leverage is invaluable in tricking people into thinking that there is, at the end of this cragged tunnel, a light. Morrison will tell you, and sometimes his wife and his children:

“There is no light, there is no god. And you’re lucky that buckets of dog shit are only just less interesting than you or we would be toying with them instead. Injecting life in and out of them repeatedly and each time measuring how long it takes them to balance a checkbook, or demograph reception on colorful phonebook advertisements for automobile glass repair!”

Er, ex-wife.
And ex-children.
Since reasonably disowned by either.

Dog shit is capable of no such things. It probably would be however, should it be wrapped in skin and zapped with electricity over and over again.

Anyways,

Evans will have numerous mosfets (secured in the rear of the spinal column) switched off. He will be immobilized and carted off deep into the guts of the facility, strapped on top of a sort of metal gurney designed to fit the contours of most any human body. Evans is then covered with binfulls of sensors and magnets. Some are taped on, some are injected into his veins or fused to his nerves. Next, Morrison will oversee what The Sphere likes to call a “rewrite”, not to be mistaken by an erasure, which removes print entirely. In the end, all the parts are still there, they can just be reassembled into a more convenient configuration, one that uses things like fear and hope more properly.
For instance, Evans used to be afraid of large dogs, because they used to bark ferociously at him from across fences or yards. Now, the motor skills he once used to cower from them will be used to be afraid of human beings with skin of a different color that he would run into every now and then, from across fences and yards. He will pretend to not understand them and have a disgusting curiosity towards their ‘backhanded’ motives and (perceived) secrecies.
According to the itinerary, which Morrison hadn’t bothered to know about, a continent southern bay area city called Portico required more racist individuals to fill its quota to more stable levels. The area had a reputation for such a thing and progressivism wasn’t on the ‘Section Operating Standards’ roster. For now.
Memories of his relatives will have the names and faces all switched around to better match the people he’ll be running into, and asking about the weather, soon enough.
The old Evans will be swept up and dusted into a chute, to be turned into heat energy in the grand furnaces of the Decency Center below that will help keep power in the facility up and running.
“Don’t drop it!” Morrison would deadpan jest from his armchair. “The day death stops taxes is the day that I die!”