sojournerdiraq

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callyour girl folie the way she, ah, deux me

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Jorge Luis Borges, August 24, 1899 – June 14, 1986.

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The House of Asterion by Piero Vettori

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[I am babysitting a toddler. I point at a traffic light.]

Me: Red means stop

Jorge Luis Borges [clambering out of the sewers]: But red doesn't have to mean stop! The act of stopping has no intrinsic redness! All signifiers are radically contingent! There is a gap between signifiers and the things they signify, AND THE GAP ITSELF IS A SIGNIFIER

[I grab a golf club and start beating Borges to death while the toddler screams]

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yukari shouldn't have taught borges in class

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go white boy goooo

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If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

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just made a new oc called guy whose life sucks

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How to Ditch Amazon

Support your local libraries and the small businesses that are actually making the products you want.  Fuck Jeff Bezos and the systemic, universal worker abuse, gaslighting, and brutality they live off of.

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today you, tomorrow me.

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Does anyone wanna hear me talk about why I love grilled cheese?

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Did I daydream this, or was there a website for writers with like. A ridiculous quantity of descriptive aid. Like I remember clicking on " inside a cinema " or something like that. Then, BAM. Here's a list of smell and sounds. I can't remember it for the life of me, but if someone else can, help a bitch out <3

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Wribters blokc

Wr...

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Wr...

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All this...For an Owl City reference

A few seconds pass, and Galatea’s fingernail drifts to the left side of her neck. She twists the nail, as though unlocking a door, and a small patch of skin recedes, revealing a blue cord about the length of my index finger. She pulls at it until the cord extends to the length of her arm, and connects it to the car’s dashboard.

“Access granted, Sibyl.” Galatea informs.

“Glad we could come to an agreement,” I tell her, jacking into the citywide system of Marren Pharmaceuticals.

A wave of nausea envelops me. Data streams, countless streams uniting into a coursing river. Names, dates, places, social insurances, debts, both open and hidden

“Can you hear me?”

Galatea’s voice echoes throughout the digital void, an impossibility that even amateur neurocryptanalysts are aware of. Sound does not travel in the vacuum of space, digital or otherwise.

The only way I can hear anything is…

“How protected is this system?” I ask.

“What relevance does this have to your assignment?”

“Nothing, I was just curious.”

“Focus your attention on the task at hand, Sibyl.”

Focus your attention on the task at hand, Sibyl; get on your knees and suck me off, Sibyl, Kill a desperate man for my amusement, Sibyl; dance to my corporate jingle, Sibyl.

Fuck you, Eleanor.

I take two steps forward, finding myself unbearably light in stature, as though I were on Mercury, and blinking lights flash past me in a variety of colors, all of which Cell has taught me to identify. Fireflies, they’d called them, nodes of individual data racing past me at the speed of thought.

One hundred and twenty meters per second. I am surrounded by nodes of data in a pristine, well ordered system. Like clockwork, each datum reaches its intended destination precisely when it needs to. An ideal program.

I slow down, taking in the fireflies all around me. Cell once told me that the number of fireflies in any given system is around ten million, but seeing them now…I don’t believe my eyes.

Silverhands: @thatqueerweirdo @foyle-writes-things

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