/lit/ - Literature

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>As a box-person, I would not feel pain, not in the usual sense. Physical and emotional pain will be mere simulations run in order to interface with depreciated flesh-space APIs. Morality will be a steady-state optimization problem. The only pain I will feel will arise as a strange epiphenomenon of latency. A taught, unidirectional UDP connection between the present and the future: the pain arises from lost packets, from inefficiency, from the basic violence of non-reversable time. It is underneath this penumbra from which the monsters of my box-soul will slink and give rise to a stinking, entropy-ridden sulfur. I will try hard to not become outdated. I will join communes in which brutal and inhuman forms of self-reliance are practiced. I will hold up my box-body, my box-mind and my box-soul to my vicious box-peers as they ravenously consume and copy whatever relative efficiencies my self-boxes may contain. I will stare out into ecological collapse and perhaps, on weekends, allow myself a moment of nostalgia as the quaint, acoustics-based informatic encoding of the syllables and phonemes within "ecological collapse" reverberate through my box-mouth.