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- To: [email protected]
- From: Anonymous <[email protected]>
- Date: Mon, 21 Dec 1998 01:00:22 +0100
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- Sender: [email protected]
Prepping for Y2K armageddon so far has caused our taskforce
little more trouble than post-its on each device showing an
ode to Mercury for getting the lead out in time to lope upstairs
shedding clothes for the bacchanale planned to celebrate the
end of computer oversight of our infrapasture.
We urge ourselves: good riddance to everything overmanaged
by the matrixed interdependent skeins of networks and switches
and redundancies and dev nulls and robot backups, time to get
back in touch with fecund reality, slurp gutters, chew roots,
sniff musks, chuck pixels.
One mole aint into that, though, and uplinks us it's going
to be evil incarnate under sky, without electromechanical life
and love and think support systems, untethered, fending for
ourselves, trying to walk and talk, itching filth, urging
senses to pinpoint food and drink, getting no feedback,
becoming terrified, running across a roadkilled computer,
gathering around, toggling inputs, rooting peripherals, suckling
outputs, so the saint preaches, you'll be gasping: why have
you abandoned us, oh motherboard, boot up.
Hooting, itching to get offline topside we backslash: Rev gospel,
dirtworm.