The coffee grounds and ceramics crunch underhand. There’s a motorcycle whizzing by wound up by a friction. Chet does it again, annihilating choice.

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The rift opens up offering its infinity. Everyone in, everyone choosing choice lives. Hollowcene in the hollowdeck. The choosing is aloof of imagination, imagination been given to the algorithms long ago. The endless possibilities of manipulation made possible by passing on the mental ambulant. Jazz is back en vogue. Silicon wafers strut their stuff.

A scientist performs again. Falsifying the previous method. His computer presenting the findings, or so he thinks. The bits flop around, a pointer misappointed. The “a” replaces a “the”. “The choice we make isn’t really a choice.”

An artist signs the work. Signing in these digital times. Analog carrying the ultimate validation. Still. Forensics is a digital activity — the only digital activity. Creation is analogue. Experimenters swing each other around enclosed by the ironed theorists. A shoe taps out a sequenced clatter.

Friendship and love dissolve at the door of the rift. Constrained relations aren’t necessary nor sufficient in a rift. The rift becomes you, there is no compromise, no environment in which to relate. Everything becoming the rifter, the rifter never moves. Everyone on the dance floor with no funny valentine and each with a personal Chet.

Magic is back. Magic users are the only users now. Exploited as the highest technology, the highest levels of achievement by the most progressive analogs — all hail the mighty magicians — the Wizards of the West Coast. “We can do whatever we want!” the code commit and build incantations ring out. Chet dies an infinite death as death is eliminated.

All theories become true eventually, the old saying never goes. No one ever says that even though it’s true, only because it’s The End of theory. Theories becoming true falsify the all other theories. Magic users have no choice in this, mind you. They cast the spells allowed by the bit storage limit 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256… map reducible… Funny valentine these fickle transcendentals — pi doesn’t map reduce.

Then again, Chet never applied for an NFS grant. In grants all science and art is reducible.

Valuable insights are no longer the currency. Not because there are sights to see, there are infinitely too many, in fact. Scarcity is value. Now that choice is infinite there is nothing to value. Noisy jazz is just digital heavy metal, can’t dance to that. Dance is no longer musical, it is digital and requires only the tick tock of a flipping bit — 10⁸⁴ or more. Sinusoidal longing waved good bye in Don Knuth’s Stanford classes.

Coffee grinds into gums igniting imagination. Molecular jazz inflecting into. Stuck between the teeth, a detail left out in the 257th floating point. Hacked off, if-then. The rifter sleeps that virtual sleeping way, Kubrick keeps his eyes wide open while the body Kickstarts in a chamber.

Morality crowd sourced. The crowd votes out corporations as people and the crowd is now people. The Rift and the Rifters are now a Singular Person — Wolfram’s Trillion Souls in A Box all running Wolfram Lang. It’s not wrong, you know. You and you and you and you. It just is. E-flat and a drum. It’s not right, you know. Chet and Chet and Chet and Chet. He just died again.

The programmers leave out something essential — vowels. Most ridesharers don’t know this — their Ubers are really just Brs. Without vowels there is no air, just the click clacking of shoes and ceramics grinding down stones. Camel cased consonants bracketing in the genetic code of the Rift. Its ll rdbl bt nt spkbl. Breath is gone in this infint constant consonant. Vwls aren’t in the hierarchy of needs. Chet plays only F,D,G,C,B. Just jzz. A tricky sticky stuck sound, but not anything to make love to.

We enter the rift — the organism of science brought on by the foreplay of God. We leave our lovers and our friends and our drivers. Midnight comes over and over. Chet dies over and over. Libet’s veto delayed, he always kills the music.

Written by

I be doing stuff. and other stuff. More stuff. I believe in infinite regression of doing stuff.

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