The white space is unnerving. Living in this bottleneck. This blown info gasket. Noise is the amnion of the usual. The growth of the forces of production did not collectivize a class in and for itself. The coughs and missteps, babel of cognition never not market-unaware. As The Low Hanging Fruit Vulnerabilities Are More Likely To Have Already Turned Up. Drill the youth surplus for the language of the next five seconds. Every moment subsumed into this mass grave of “content.” The white space curves your hollow affect. A kyriarchal skein of symbols snake you in the guise of the unconscious, a “North Face Killa.”
Integrate this, ID this, subsume this, peep this, load this. “Microchipped” with unremitting peripheral codes. The beat dropping is the beat. The FL Studio snare triplets are the bones. An Object Oriented Ontology, we rub against the features of massive, incomprehensible wearable tech, and we are what’s being worn. By what nakedness? Planning for your future? Consider “Submitting To A Pile” this fall. Submit your mind to the teeming grave of OC. Your rottenness composing a throwed shitpost fealty: an actual beat, something like a nitecore chainsaw fantasy, slices your vision frame by frame and skips between them, back and forth through “these days” and “some day soon” and “nowadays.” Contemporariness fetish atop this heap, the bruised spots of the low-hanging fruit wash out into unprecedented Starter Kit memes, the actual roots of our family trees. And so our garbage body again blossoms the fruit of a e s t h e t i c.
To comprehend this nonsense bios ur gonna need ur “Weed Kit” doe, a branded cache of sensory metadata we pass between us like a hollowed-out apple. This is the first hex of a diagnostic, “common sense” sounds like incomprehensibility, cardiac arrhythmia, hollowtips burling through mechania GONE SEXUAL 2016. People historically have classified native vegetation as a “weed,” defining it as such through the development of a sterile surgical programme of removal, erasure, biolithic domination. We peep these phenomena with a rush of yung anxiety, preprogrammed before awakening, as in, which came first: hypochondria or “Web MD.” Which is a foxhole prayer, a faithfulness to pathology; you efface the ego and atone for your shame in ID’ing your tendential impulses. Which of course were never in your possession but pressed you into a metallic token, to be inserted into a machine to play a simulation, which is occurring in some scuttling robotic being.
Which undoubtedly is feeling “That Captagon Sting,” racing over the sand, retinal probosces affixed to the head, amphetamine commingling thought and movement into a single gesture, a trail of money in your wake that leads back to the same pile of metadata that molded your deadset frame. “CRS” floods your systems with nanomicelle, ideological warriors within the warrior itself, transhumanism embodied in iterative arcs of simulated machinery. We now operate on the memory of machinery within data, the machinery set in fluid motion absent of our cognition. Because we know from quantum theory that bilocation is, like, actually a thing; hyperobjects rub up against us, and we feel their piqued local effects like compressed data streams, one panned to each ear on “Velocity, Bilocation, Pyrokinesis.” But by definition we can never know their true form in its entirety. This thing exists across eons, across galaxies, through the fabric of us. And, like, we’re just the low-hanging fruit.