“You might create a battlefield in your own brain, your identity will nurtured against the upset chemistry of its own world. It might be a war not unto death but until the death of you, leaving a person who looks like you living decades in a vegetative or insane state. Think of s surgery where you somehow regain consciousness midway. And feeling too but no muscular control. Your eyes are closed, your body is paralysed. But your awake and you feel all the pain of the operation inside your open chest. Now imagine this going on forever. A surgery that never stops. In a body that never moves. In a mind that never sleeps again,” was what the old psychonaut said to me.

Then: “Want to roll those dice?”

Locked in a brightly lit hermetic room with neon windows, in a manic state lurching at the handle of the only door – to get out – opening the door, going through the open door into the next room. But it’s the same room. Can’t sit still, can’t stop the manic need to escape, lurching to the handle of the only door, opening the door, going through into the next room, the same room, can’t stop, lurching to the handle, opening the door, going through until the next room, it’s the same room…

What if this was like being trapped in the redundant second brain, the deaf and dumb quadriplegic within that’s intelligent but unable to communicate, a slave intellect tasked with living a whole life in this silence. Locked inside its own world, conscious and feeling but for as we know  it could be screaming in pain and we wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t know it was suffering…

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The ubercynic is a cynician, if you will. Cynicians have lately proven surprisingly antagonistic to those sententious voices most committed to amplifying contemporary opinion. “In cyberspace, nobody can hear you dream."

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