txt surrealism


serpico in dithered monochrome

The who in charge of entropy

in a desperate belief

The clock doesn't beat anymore, it ticks in silently precise interruptions, but I can tell the crows outside are beginning to shiver in the lick of the early eastern wind.

It's an unusually long drop. The molten brown spills inbetween the transistors and the drooling fools, who prick away at circuitry with paperclips shaped into tiny swords, barely notice the creeping wave. The machines whisper in tongues they were ordered to understand. The mustard on the wall has long since dried.

1UTC +1

Behind closed doors, eyes turnt to salt and spoofed packets, hovers the reminder of a raped dream. If you try to reach with your tired fingers between the shoulder blades, you can almost feel the wire that should be there. Vomit crawls up the back of my throat.

In a blinding shine of square kilometers of pixels and cyber ink of 6 billion colors, sits a generation of decadent freaks, animated skeletons and failed magicians, peeking from behind window shutters tinted by the invisible discharge of glossy lenses, watching hooded shadows meet on street corners, swapping tiny bricks of archived data. A clueless obsession with racing sparks prevents them from understanding the faceless figures are waging a war on their behalf. A fight against a disease that cripples, but never kills. The manufactured belief that there is inherent evil in freedom.


The hacker hums an old tune, composed a long time ago by the clatter of magnetic drives that smelled of electricity laced with nicotine smoke. His machine recognizes the song and hums along as it extracts the archived data from the brick.

Blessed by the curse of the hanged, who first traced their fingers over golden circuits - just two more fools, longing for their missing wires.