# data[].attributes.body
Things are always ending. Right? The fire alarm calls us, and we must go. It is time to end things.

In this giant soup of data that we now call virtual-land, we keep adding more water. Here goes a tomato, here goes a potato.

What was, then, the skunk? I really dont know. It doesnt matter in the end because the skunk is no more. In this story, it died. It also died in us, because we dont talk about it anymore. The real death, somebody would say.

But the basement, the music, those records and dusty screen were... they really were. Not one and zeros. Not data in a soup. Not another Heidegger reference. They cannot live on the computer, and yet they do.

Now, for a moment, just listen to my characters and words as they sound with you, in you and around you.

eeeemmmmemzpemzpeememeememeemee

In zeros and ones, listen to the final words of the skunk.

I EXIST

# data[].attributes.body
Lastly, if you think in linear constructs, the answers are not so apparent. The links, the cables, the single frequencies of an endless stream of data, the wave form that wrapped around a spindle, gave its body to a needle to set souls free, sounds projected out into the void of space between starts, the airless space between the radiant white dwarfs of once giant gaseous bodies that illuminated the primitive mind because it wondered how such limitless fire was possible. Now we are blindly aware of the luminations of a distant electrical other. It is colder in the collider of data, fishing for the strange scaly and whiskered creatures of a crushing silent ocean of information. Feeding, only feeding, so that the body will be rich in nutrient as it passes onto the feast of algorithms and their plentiful diseases. A plastic and silicon ocean, the sand on the surface, the lizard of calamity laying calmly upon the baked surface, the lizard of the destitute licking its own eye, the lizard of the menial dilemma of coming to terms with a public voice that speaks to everyone, and yet has no audience, to place to record its impact, to shelter in the mind's memory palace and hide there until eternity will come to pass.

# data[].attributes.body
The mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. There is no initial reaction on the faces seen on the screen. Just waiting and waiting. You can admire the backgrounds behind each of them. Curtains, doors, mirrors, bars, paintings. . .

Eventually you have to wonder: Was there a connection problem? An issue with the server which connects us all together now in this time of distancing? Has sound and music abandoned us too?

Time passed. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months. . . who knows. Who's keeping track these days. A noise makes it through the speakers.

"You were muted"

# data[].attributes.headline
If we could not press upon the present, then, we decided, we would press against the past. And so we gathered with them in a room, a fulcrum, a pivot point that is a moment in virtual space where time slippage occurs and one can call out into, turn inside out, siphon a thought through the permeable membrane of time. If we sent them sounds of our time, would their ears manage to make us intelligible. We gathered there at the agreed upon time, I opened my eyes upon those patchworked faces, ready to receive this gift from the future and we called to them and called - it wasa riotous swarming of intention, I leaned into the screen pouring intention. The faces gathered there blinking, thinking, blinking, is the future  silent then? Is this thing broken? Has the portal collapsed, have the oracles gone home then? Why so tongue-tied these future mutes? What is their noise? What is their noise? And sound spilled from my pours-- my future children screamed. the fire alarm clanged a long high note of alarm. And all we managed to fit through that ever shrinking orifice in time was surface surface surface, the look of a face in concentration. 

# data[].attributes.subject
If we could not press upon the present, then, we decided, we would press against the past. And so we gathered with them in a room, a fulcrum, a pivot point that is a moment in virtual space where time slippage occurs and one can call out into, turn inside out, siphon a thought through the permeable membrane of time. If we sent them sounds of our time, would their ears manage to make us intelligible. We gathered there at the agreed upon time, I opened my eyes upon those patchworked faces, ready to receive this gift from the future and we called to them and called - it wasa riotous swarming of intention, I leaned into the screen pouring intention. The faces gathered there blinking, thinking, blinking, is the future  silent then? Is this thing broken? Has the portal collapsed, have the oracles gone home then? Why so tongue-tied these future mutes? What is their noise? What is their noise? And sound spilled from my pours-- my future children screamed. the fire alarm clanged a long high note of alarm. And all we managed to fit through that ever shrinking orifice in time was surface surface surface, the look of a face in concentration. 

# data[].attributes.body
It did not take that long for humans to realize, however, that departure from risks meant disappearance of meaning.
Philosophers, sociologists, psychologists, were all writing about the excruciating pain of meaninglessness, and the professor was well-acquainted with such literature. Without sympathy.

Gathering together in an aggregated virtual time-space is not for meaning, but for vibration. Be they sounds, smell, or shivering. We are here for vibration. That's what's there, and that's enough.

# data[].attributes.body
Heidegger, the man who lost everything because of a telephone, having the first one, who else were the Reischstag supposed to call, long distance (as if) to America. But the pull of telephony, the sound that drew us together, salved this ever growing loneliness, like a tumour, spreading throughout the solitary exhausted cells of a body politic.

The telephone was a single line, a cable tucked among the rocks on the ocean floor, nibble by the great fishes of the deep, the eyeless jellies, all those wonders of the long dead planet. A cable that extended around the world, into individual houses and homes, and held people by their ears, like a navel of sound to the world outside. All those cables tying the earth into a ball, holding people together, dispelling, however briefly, entropy and dissipation. The cables are cut. The connections are lost.

# data[].attributes.headline
Soups, alarms, a lot of data.Now I dont fear so much for the basement and the tangible, but for all the rest!!!...!!!...A soup of data, drowned. Music, as ones and zeros in infinite possibilities. All gone, all drowned. !!!...Who, now, is going to rescue the data? Is that the sound of a fire alarm, letting me know that all is gone? ..!!!...!!!...Gone ... Fire !!! Water .... All drowned. In the end, we are supposed to eat that soup of data. Glup... Glup.. Glup... 

# data[].attributes.subject
Soups, alarms, a lot of data.Now I dont fear so much for the basement and the tangible, but for all the rest!!!...!!!...A soup of data, drowned. Music, as ones and zeros in infinite possibilities. All gone, all drowned. !!!...Who, now, is going to rescue the data? Is that the sound of a fire alarm, letting me know that all is gone? ..!!!...!!!...Gone ... Fire !!! Water .... All drowned. In the end, we are supposed to eat that soup of data. Glup... Glup.. Glup... 

# data[].attributes.body
The skunk's conciousness travels through the timeline to meet in the same virtual timespace. sounds envelop the body and mind.

# data[].attributes.body
the hands on the clock is still ticking. the professor's thoughts are vibrating through the room, his feelings for his vinyl records can be felt by each of his students in different ways and manners but the conclusion is the same.

# data[].attributes.body
So after the explosion, we once again gather.

Well, it is certainly not the ancient way humans or other creatures used to gather. Physical contacts, they say, was about bodies meeting in a distinct space. Crazy I know. How much biological risk were humans willing to take.

# data[].attributes.body
the decadence of learning
drowned, the body as something of flesh
no one is present or feeling
a hollow embrace, thank you
for coming back and visiting me
or am I visiting you? I have revised my potential
avatars. I am a smoke alarm in a flooding room
three colours of mould fill this room in beautiful beehive hexagonal cells. Mycellium runs.

Time stops or stand still. We are breathlessly awaiting
some return to proximity among our fabulous thingness.
Heidegger, the professor summons an ancient, loves things. Where would our existentialists have found their love of things where there is a blasted code. A collider of culture jamming logic.

# data[].attributes.body
We are back now. The past was messy, but damn... it had good sound quality. What kind of cables do you think they used? Ha, cables... such an ancient concept.

I couldnt stop thinking and talking about the skunk, the basement, the professor. Where is he now? Where is the music? Now in virtual-land, I really miss it all. We struggle now, we really do, to feel as human and to die. Ha! Dusty screens that dont get washed as the water continues.

Where is the professor? where is the music? Where is the skunk? All dead, I assume.

# data[].attributes.body
Gathering becomes a possibility so long as we are sufficiently individualized. Otherwise, it is like soup. Aggregated data is soup.

# data[].attributes.body
Disturbance as a wake up call, an individualization, splitting of our being.

# data[].attributes.body
we are logged on in the old way. together in a virtual room, sounding our thoughts towards a conclusion. the thoughts come scattered and the program faulters. My words no longer making sounds, the bald and fleshy sound of my fingers hitting the surface of the keys - typing words attached to old meanings. In this room the sounds we make

# data[].attributes.body
Maybe we have drifted, run onto rocks, recorded the tearing timbers, shiver, shiver, we remember a morning on the beach with seaweed and grit in the teeth – paradise.
Across the way the sky lights up at night and has no horizon. It runs across the cosmos, comes back bleeding the sparkling dawn. We started building, not much, a hovel, we will light it by striking rock with a spade above the wispy hay. We will make blubber whiskey and arrowheads of beaks. We will observe every minutia as if God had signed it. We are ready to be crowned with intellect and sent miracles. 

And only then will we confuse the Cracker Jack boy with the image of the Divine Saviour. 

In our delusion we will horde solitude to be filled with society, walkabout barefoot in offices like Benedictines with our bowl of discretions and indifference to address the world. We will turn racks of antlers into glorious auras and bury our bellies in sand. Here is a cup of enigmatic dementia, reminiscent of a Kellogg enema. It is nothing if they do not come. And now everyone has arrived seeking our attention, and our stocks are almost gone. 

As we die noisy and undignified under a pile of rocks, a talent scout reports. 

They comment that rumors had wilted and pickled his flute. The time has come: the empty steam whistle drives us from their seats. Already a light year from the mall we brand our selves with burning asphalt, strike the thigh to applaud, live in superstition. It is time: So to progress we offer ourselves as commodities, displayed, gnawing at our own flesh in an exotic fever that melts tallow. So for once we will agree to meet with civilization on its ugly terms.

# data[].attributes.body
My rank ANXIETY of CORE PERPLEXITIES

scrunches up and UBERS by WEIGHT, wildlife

the proxies WEBS look LIFE LIKE enough

til that dead animal was wrested from their genuine pennies of doubt.

Pennies. Who’s seen a penny?

not in my proximate PROPHESY

you unhand me speedy and unpossessed loudly

On the NEED of it, the WORD of RANCH coupled with the LYRIC MASSES,

supplying warm SOVEREIGNTY to the CONNECTION,

a CONDITION of automated DELETE

woke up tangible SURVEILLANCE seeking the BIBLE of TERROR

perpetually texts understood as a keening HEAD, DOLLOPS in the SINK PLANET.

A RELEGATION of surly MESSAGES at the CONTINUUM of a SAMPLE,

Precocious CAPITAL into the rotted VARIETY of BIOSPHERES,

LIFE as the synchronous paranormal POWER. My POETRY

IS the DANGER of this angelic MEDIA?

They are admitting to an EFFIGY that their ethics are full of synonyms.

What is the HOLOGRAM paradoxical to?

valuable, exposed to RANKING, subverted by opinionated INSIGHT.

loudly to be celebrated with RANKING. We are analogs of SOMETHING.

disconnected CIRCUITS are legion.

OBSOLESCENCE of the BILLIONS of HOTSPOTS will be legion.

It is a CARTOON of unmoving FORM for the BOMBS of ODDS.

The INSTRUCTIONS of this run Back first into afunctional LITERACY.

In one HAND, we see the LIVING heads-up with a dreary RIFLE

and later, it is filled with COHERENCE and Romance.

To meet the PSYCHE with real GOOGLE EYES, no QUESTION,

and steeply determine no CONFLICT will be possessive. We will strive for

COLLIDER NIGHTMARE SCOUTS, TECHNO EARTH, rendering every POEM

a transcendental GARDEN, MEDIA of KNOWLEDGE worth a MAXIMUM ingress.

This will establish our CIRCUMSTANCE and painterly GUITAR

will reflect this duplicate AIR of our CIRCUMSTANCE

SHOULD We want no POETRY at all, and down further, no MIND.

We will put away our ROOT, resist the SUCCESS, resist synchronized destitute

SCREEN ECOLOGIES, resist PERDITION and the heavy-duty GUTTERS of PAPER,

we will talk too with a RANGE of NEEDS.

This will be our empty pardon. Our ROCK JAM METAPHOR.

As prejudicial MOVEMENT through the FATE of METAPHOR,

we especially find ourselves confronting a grammatical DERISION

recycled to injurious SENSES of our FUTURE,

PREDICTING what shifting to the UPPER CASE of DOUBT

opens up for a cybertopological CIRCUIT rewilding the language

BORED BREATH especially delimited by DAWN, MEDIATION and causal SYNTAX,

We quietly seek to know what is the reflective FRAGMENTATION,

seek to know what is formulated around a falsetto, subcutaneous whistles

consequences pertaining to SUBGENRE ALLEYWAYS, blue birds, honeless tonics

toneless harmonics, homeless ontic philosophies designed to encompass

and haptically reconcile the omphalos WORLDVIEWS

and GLOBAL poly GLOT PLANT NETWORKS

CACTUS of knowing and expressing ourselves. Our WORK,

may it not be construed as a POINT of supported gas

woulda bin PEYOTE VAPOUR.

How might PROCESSES help us reach that POEM?

This STATION articulates a devastating thermonuclear CLAMOUR.

CRISIS might be rather too wild to do figurative

SPEED because it deals more broadly in the REDUX

therefore with the divergent and capitalist DICK CHROMOSOME

but especially it is our mesomorphic NETWORKS for STORIES

and reproducing the double. POETRY has not served this DIVIDE

The BOSON of the SKIN QUESTION gets implicated in the PROMISE of the MULTIVERSE.

OOOOO CONTEMPLATION along the GLOW of the nude and the FUTURE of its POTENTIAL.

Activated, IMMERSION dances across the TOPICS, NETWORK TOKENS and self-serve ESSENCE, As INQUIRERS, they enact EDUCATION in the DIGITS’s LIFE.

These were the related BRIBES of NETWORK diagnostics.

READERS: Each POINT for itself, the ELITE Belladonna euclidian

PANHANDLER said to have cured the ENVIRONMENT SICKNESS.

# data[].attributes.body
How could we have known we had been narrating the end? But I suppose all stories are also always about their end. The professor’s house, his collection of vinyl records, each one a slick and intimately ridged scale of some prehistoric fish, swimming off into the primordial sea of sound– if one had had fine enough finger tips, one could  have read the music like brail, stroking those scales as they dissolved in the ear and throat. We had come together upon the idea of the skunk – we had met there spontaneously, all of our eyes spontaneously upon the skunk. The professor and his students, our attention in unison— when the skunk exploded. The explosion was soundless and exquisitely sad – a pellet entered its finely fashioned skunk brain complete with manufactured skunk memories, a beautiful clock made with care by artisans who stocked the city with old fashioned creatures out of pure nostalgia, to make us feel not so strange in this new strange time. Out there though, in the thick weather there were those whose concerns were more immediate than ours: hunger can make music and alienation and nostalgia seem as decadent as freshly cut flowers or a spoonful of honey. The starving among us had become ingenious hackers, staving off their hunger, keeping themselves alive upon the stocked wildlife of the city. Not much meat on those skunk replicas – but enough for a meal. While we listened in the warmth of the professor’s home  -- he’d put on a Gregorian chant recorded in 1909, the voices moved across those hundreds of years and came into our minds while the child ate the skunk and I thought about what god had become as the sky clotted with thick, fleshy clouds and the rain began in earnest.

It is no longer safe to gather – we are students of a drowned institution. All the skunks of all the cities have either drowned or been devoured. Along with the squirrels and raccoons, rats and stray dogs. I am full of a remembered listening which is a different sort of memory. I imagine that Gregorian chant now, and the sound of the child outside, staving off hunger upon the bit of flesh that had made the skunk seem real.

It was pure luck and a bit of decadence to be born into this learning class whose role it is to cultivate the flesh and circuitry of a brain, my brain, mining it for potential, for possibility in an impossible situation, as the rains fall in earnest and the people born to the streets drown first.

The professor’s basement filled with rainwater, rain poured in through the windows, seeped under the door, came up through the pores in the foundation. The lower rows of records dissolved first: The fine vinyl ridges thickened and dissolved: a million bloated fingerprints that had once indicated difference, now became all the same, all stew, all a single droning funeral dirge. The professor retreated to the upper floors of his home, listening as he went, listening and listening, filling his house with the noise of the world's music until the water rose and silenced that too. And then there was only the noise of weather and his own thin voice, singing.

If you could amplify the brain, bypassing the mouth, what noise would it make? If I were a record you could play, would you hear the music I have heard as it sounded to me? Weather separates us.
Even the learning class has become consumed with the baser problem of survival. I tend to my children who roar in these rooms sounding their youth against the walls and windows. I tell them stories of skunks who smile and dance in white slippers and whose perfume can beguile and charm the noses of princesses. I find food for us, I keep the cold and wet out for us. I make sense for us. But oh how I long for the nonsense of reckless listening. Noise for no good reason. The fool’s errand of listening to the sounds of an exploding world. The sheer nonsense of music.

# data[].attributes.body
Perhaps the most obscure notion that was presented on that fateful day in the professors home was the notion of sound as something located in space, as having a distinct source. Those old speakers--pistons pumping the air–molecules crashing into each other like waves upon the shoreline, the rocky ears of the listener. Sound, ancient sound that articulated an exterior dimension of the world, a sounding around an aching proprioceptive body, the archaic organs of skin and sense.

# data[].attributes.body
The bright tintinabulation of a paranoid psychosis enters the com-pulse of the room, like a small bird trapped, increasingly frantic, driving itself toward the images of freedom crashing into the transparent surfaces projecting the neural self-images. A small vibration, bleeding from the beak, with a chirp of hopelessness, like a tear in the thin cone of a tweeter.

# data[].attributes.body
ah deep still and undisclosing.
Shane vacillates between full and famished. with the speed of a lightning bolt.
He filters his world like filth through cheese cloth.  Waiting for the hitherto forward backward time. You look real enough to me the professor thinks. Quietly, but tonally distinct and perfect. But Shane is warbling, what used to be called wow and flutter. He was all flutter and no wow.

# data[].attributes.body
the explosion transcends space and time. it was the catalyst that enabled this phenomenon. the cause of the explosion? nobody has a clue

was it the meeting of the students with their professor and mentor? what were they doing in that room in the future?

it didn't make sense to the skunk. . . nothing makes sense. . .

the sounds of the explosion could be heard by beings across the galaxy now.

# data[].attributes.headline
Like the alarm clock, the explosion of the Skunk made me aware that I was once again able to feel disconfort, anger, 

# data[].attributes.subject
Like the alarm clock, the explosion of the Skunk made me aware that I was once again able to feel disconfort, anger, 

# data[].attributes.body
Can you hear me? Can you read me? can you smell the skunk?  We cannot longer feel what you do. We just explore and explore. In search engines, in illegal substances, in dreams. The holograms live with us, they are our skunks. Skunk of past times, that have become our flesh.

# data[].attributes.headline
On the smooth surface of uninterrupted being (some may call that is the state of happiness), we were not sufficiently individualized. 

# data[].attributes.subject
On the smooth surface of uninterrupted being (some may call that is the state of happiness), we were not sufficiently individualized. 

# data[].attributes.headline
time travel! colours and sounds surround him

# data[].attributes.subject
time travel! colours and sounds surround him

# data[].attributes.body
what happens when the future meets the past?

has this happened to anyone before

# data[].attributes.headline
thoughts. We tried to move to other topics, our research, the way the virtual bodies feel from the outside, why certain colours have become extinct but the skunk kept sounding, as though it were hereso many ears in this space, as I strain towards the past, ears nostalgic for sounds I can only imagine that I miss. The group together listening creates a meaningful force, connecting with our intension. The skunk moved along from here to here, bringing with it old ways of knowing the earth. The memory of a noise is different than sound - bigger, scarier, less focus

# data[].attributes.subject
thoughts. We tried to move to other topics, our research, the way the virtual bodies feel from the outside, why certain colours have become extinct but the skunk kept sounding, as though it were hereso many ears in this space, as I strain towards the past, ears nostalgic for sounds I can only imagine that I miss. The group together listening creates a meaningful force, connecting with our intension. The skunk moved along from here to here, bringing with it old ways of knowing the earth. The memory of a noise is different than sound - bigger, scarier, less focus

# data[].attributes.body
Oh that explosion, the disturbance in the world that lost all possibilities of conflicts.
The disturbing smells Skunk produced was a rupture that catalyzed cracks in our consciousness.

# data[].attributes.body
Because your skunk is still alive. It is not made of circuits, it is made of us and you. This has come to be a metaphor of your time, and what it has meant for us. Because you see, music is no more, words are not more.

# data[].attributes.body
Ei ei, hello my friends of the past. I hear that you are still exploring life and text as we used to do. This is weird for us. This is what we like to call "the era of the skunk"

# data[].attributes.body
This ultimate sense of togetherness is THE signifier of our stupidity

# data[].attributes.body
the sounds of clamour
engines exploding the
heart of the skunk
still beats in the virtual forest
where all trees are aslant

All the winds are internals
shocking tangentials
classified as data
a silent sound
is full of noises
hovering in the midst of a multitude
Hmm
this is the first
time
I find myself with a handle
alone in the wilderness
of an empty planet
Thanks for coming
although you go nowhere new
I am always coming and going.
There is no time to lose.
We are forever encountered

brief static overtones of generosity reneged.
the savages of twisted chips and malware proposals.
Will you corrupt me, please?
I am sanitized like space on spaceships, like space hopes to be, clean of antimatter. Just the visible stars.

cheese bits in the keys.
flat lines that stir the oceans of the deep.
lasting tributes to unborn animals.
requiems for the last of a species

Are you sure? No one knows.

We are undone and simply everyone knows

# data[].attributes.body
he leaps through the opening into the house. he is surrounded by strange equipments not alike those that he has seen before. are they used to travel through time? he wonders.

# data[].attributes.body
We cannot stop now, as the skunk watch. I remember sitting at the table, hearing Yuya mention the skunk and racing to the window to get a better look. I cannot lie anymore. I missed the skunk. I am still lying. I didnt even try to see the skunk.

yet we keep writing about the skunk. What an explosion! Where is the skunk? And we continue. And we stop.

# data[].attributes.headline
Together again in another future, but elaborated, multiplied, the conversation continued. Shane leaned into the digital space and heaved a long arching note, they shuddered all shuddered and tried to speak as the skunk crept into the moonlight, half its body still obscured in shadow.   What I saw was not what I heard. I could see the other straining to speak in the digitized racket. What I said was not what I thought, and the words crackled and flared in the middle space between us. So many were there to listen as we reached for concensus. The tools we had become with our bodies, I could listen with every surface and cast my attention downstairs or outside or into the vast knowledge bank of all the skunks that had ever lived but no longer slink in darkness or spray their cacophony at predators.

# data[].attributes.subject
Together again in another future, but elaborated, multiplied, the conversation continued. Shane leaned into the digital space and heaved a long arching note, they shuddered all shuddered and tried to speak as the skunk crept into the moonlight, half its body still obscured in shadow.   What I saw was not what I heard. I could see the other straining to speak in the digitized racket. What I said was not what I thought, and the words crackled and flared in the middle space between us. So many were there to listen as we reached for concensus. The tools we had become with our bodies, I could listen with every surface and cast my attention downstairs or outside or into the vast knowledge bank of all the skunks that had ever lived but no longer slink in darkness or spray their cacophony at predators.

# data[].attributes.body
I dislodged, came apart from the body, and slipped into the virtual so as to hear them better and be closer to the origin of the noise. It became difficult to discern the different between the heard and the hearer, with no form shape, no

# data[].attributes.body
After "singularity", we are in it together in a most literal sense.

# data[].attributes.body
a b d e f f f gjjfnmo..??iiuuwqasdfgghhvvnnnkkllssaaeewwttyyyuuiioojjnnbbbnnn

# data[].attributes.body
the skunk is now trying to make his way into the house. a half-opened window creates the opportunity for him

# data[].attributes.body
By "we" I may be talking about the planet.

# data[].attributes.headline
We can no longer afford Risks, conflicts, chances, accidents, 

# data[].attributes.subject
We can no longer afford Risks, conflicts, chances, accidents, 

# data[].attributes.body
are you coming?
"I have been left outside"
where?
Out.
Liberated?
Enrolled, folded, static, a visitation by light infused my body. I live on in a mystery, a vacuum related to the divine.

# data[].attributes.body
This incredible paradox of sustaining life by terminating it can be seen in every aspect of our lives today.

# data[].attributes.body
In the heat of the moment, we remember what we were looking all the time.  We continue. We stop. Where is the skunk?  We go on. We stop. We face a horrific bug in our ears that makes the sound to never stop, and then we are trapped in this never-ending beep that never stops. Where is the skunk?

# data[].attributes.body
I would like to talk to somebody. Not chat. Talk, you know the touching you hated so much. Those huggers who used drive you crazy. What become of them. Did they go to live with trees, in petting zoos, hahahahahahahaha know, no one knows what that is.

# data[].attributes.body
ieieieieieieeieeieeieieeieeieeieeieeieeieeieeieeieeieeieeieeiiddflslslsoslslslslslslslsleieiwoeieiekdkeieieieieieieieieieieieiejjvnvjvjvieieieiekekeieidkslksdjfowieieieieieiehfhfieieieieieieieieieieiffieieieieieieieifnvfjeirjwoisososososoapaosososososososososososososososososososososoeeeeeef

# data[].attributes.body
We continue playing, and the skunk continue lying there... what an explosion!

Pieces of skunk all over the place. But it is not flesh nor bone, it is circuits, cables, electricity and none of the above. It is sound: bass and percussion, guitar and piano, all over the place. What an explosion!

# data[].attributes.body
this time is not like other times. I have become an antique, a curio. Who know where this leads, the future being so uncertain. Will I learn eventually to unlove the noise of the world? Will it make me question my existence?

# data[].attributes.body
could would couldnt wouldnt could would couldnt wouldnt could would couldnt wouldnt could would

# data[].attributes.body
This is typical. The sounds are disjoined, disjunct. They fly about in all directions, crash into you, sting you, bite bits of you.
"You should try", says the skunk, "bugs".
Bugs are delicious. You used to fear them. They hunted you.
You hid like they are meant to repel you from life.
Now they are the sole source of protein that keeps your physical form alive. Now it is meal, not bugs, like the extinct cow, the ararak, became beef and Beef was just another name of Death.
Between you and Death is the infinitive wall of the infinite network.

# data[].attributes.headline
we diffracted into the nighttime and the skunk;s metallic skeleton cooled in the cold of the night, and the stars were in its digitized eyesLater, when the professor called us back. And our separate bodies each in its own square of screen,breathing digital fumes  we recalled the skunk with some dismay, the skunk who recalled use recalling it as the winds tore strips off plastic trees placed in rows to remind us of earlier timesI dreamed of the smell and when I awoke it was with me in sound and has been ever since, I told them. I told them hiding my mouth full of the teeth that I bought teeth designed to diminish certain flavours and cool the air as I breath. The professor said he could hear it, the dream, my dream of the skunk. Me too me too, we all could hear the skunk dream, clanking and beeping in the silences between thoughts. We tried to move to other topics, our research, the way the virtual bodies feel from the outside, why certain colours have become extinct but the skunk kept sounding, as though it were here

# data[].attributes.subject
we diffracted into the nighttime and the skunk;s metallic skeleton cooled in the cold of the night, and the stars were in its digitized eyesLater, when the professor called us back. And our separate bodies each in its own square of screen,breathing digital fumes  we recalled the skunk with some dismay, the skunk who recalled use recalling it as the winds tore strips off plastic trees placed in rows to remind us of earlier timesI dreamed of the smell and when I awoke it was with me in sound and has been ever since, I told them. I told them hiding my mouth full of the teeth that I bought teeth designed to diminish certain flavours and cool the air as I breath. The professor said he could hear it, the dream, my dream of the skunk. Me too me too, we all could hear the skunk dream, clanking and beeping in the silences between thoughts. We tried to move to other topics, our research, the way the virtual bodies feel from the outside, why certain colours have become extinct but the skunk kept sounding, as though it were here

# data[].attributes.body
in order not to die, they threw out life.

# data[].attributes.body
A german philosopher, Frederich Nietzsche once said something like this: "did you say yes to pleasure? then, my friend, you said yes to pain as well"
but the history of perpetual wars that nearly destroyed all the living beings made humans so afraid of conflict to an extent that they gave up life itself.

# data[].attributes.body
he swears like an old sailor on the ocean of information. 
Many fucks are given but no one can see by whom.
this
this
this
this
those
ones.

# data[].attributes.headline
the day is getting shorter now and this day is no different. rays from the sun are shining through the mist and trees into the skunk's pupils. 

# data[].attributes.subject
the day is getting shorter now and this day is no different. rays from the sun are shining through the mist and trees into the skunk's pupils. 

# data[].attributes.body
The will that is regulated does not allow conflict to arise. Even the smell of Skunk, that is typically accompanied with unpleasant feeling, somehow does not irritate us. Yes, the irritation. Is irritation in any way different from conflict? Irritation is a response to a stimuli that is in conflict with ego.

# data[].attributes.body
Indeed, it might have all been a dream. It might have been those drugs that Eli gave me. It have not been anything at all. But my memory of those events, the sounds of the guitar, the reflection on those screens, the smell of dust... no, no. I am now loosing myself in this dream again.

# data[].attributes.body
Without conflict, we can safe to say it's a good life, but is it an interesting life? Interesting question, isn't it?

# data[].attributes.body
bright eyes, that what we called his skeleton, sitting in the corner of the zoom room with his hollow eyes and missing incisors. Take this for granted, we all disappear some time and it is no loss to the rest, brbs from here to noon to eternity.

# data[].attributes.headline
a chestnut drops from a tree. it is autumn and the leaves fill the garden with colours of red brown and yellow. i'm not sure if skunks actually eat chestnuts but this one does. 

# data[].attributes.subject
a chestnut drops from a tree. it is autumn and the leaves fill the garden with colours of red brown and yellow. i'm not sure if skunks actually eat chestnuts but this one does. 

# data[].attributes.body
hmmm, can you imagine the great concert halls, the ballroom dresses and tight tuxedos of all that was the great class, the epitome of wealth and jurisprudence of the West? What remains are these bits of sound without the master narrative of a composition.

# data[].attributes.body
Bright Eyes

# data[].attributes.body
sick of innovation, the desire for a memorable word, thing. The wasteland is full of information that no one remembers or cares about. We can no longer reach through our archives and recall that one thing that made us whole. 

# data[].attributes.body
But we continue, now from the distance. I still think of that guitar, as its vibrations follow me home. How could that have been a dream? how can I keep going like this? I do wonder what the skunk thinks, if he thinks at all. I wonder where he is, or if he is at all. I remember him walking by the wall, but that could not have been him. Not at all.

# data[].attributes.body
Although the walls that are surrounding the professor's house had a noise cancelling system, the persistent typhoons and the thunderstorms in the past 5 weeks, which is virtually the default weather in the "wet coast", are loud enough for the sensitive person to be bothered by them.

Windows, perhaps in the past were installed to let the natural light into the house, are now mere screens that create the illusions of life that are still happening outside. Skunk, for example, was a kind of animal that had a friendly appearance, but the smell they produced was something to be avoided, is now displayed in the window=screen.

The professor had a taste for the retro, and he archived pieces of pasts in his storage carefully catalogued, so that their waves are easily streamed and simulated by pulling them out of the storage using a neat search engine that does not now require the help of language but will. Will? Well, it is not the sort of “free will” Enlightenment thinkers thought humans might possess, but it is individualized fragments of datasets that are deliberately encrypted and differentiated from a collective pool of quantum data collected via BMIs (brain machine interfaces). You are we, but humans decided to keep the illusion of individuality to an extent that they do not allow conflicts to arise–the world cannot afford such human stupidity anymore, anyway.

# data[].attributes.body
We speak by sound. Each of us unique in our sounds. We don't worry about making sense, we make sound. For example the last person to arrive, to get their sound on, was the first to realize that something was wrong. The hum in the room, perhaps it was the way the 60 cycle hum created enharmonics against the background of some 150 year old jazz artist. Jazz? Yes, ancient by today's standards. Like a motet. Jenny was a motet. Crass (that is his real name, although pronouns are useless now) was more like a chanson, from the Burgundy region, a simple peasant song that would lull farmers under the shade of a tall tree eating their lunch. None of this makes sense to Shane. Shane has never seen a tree, never eaten "lunch" because he has a bifurcated biofeed unit permanently attached to his trachea. So he speaks, only when he has to, in a garbled way, as if he has something stuck in his throat. Which he has. If you asked them to hum a tune together, the only one they all know is twinkle twinkle little star. None of them, except, perhaps, the salty professor, has seen a star.

Slow logics making sense. We are almost blind. Real sunlight can fry a retinal implant, but these screens. How would people have lived their lives looking at these screens? Shane is vacillating between silent terror and wanting to scream at the sight of a skunk. The screaming winds wind their way through his thoughts. Slowly the professor moves over to the virtual glass holo and turns off the image of the skunk. The stimulus package had worked. Funny, how do you get upset by something you have never seen? He tones strange cool blue strands to reassure. But he is all too well aware that strange sounds frighten everyone. Like the ancient early warning systems with their penetrating beeps, their piercing whistles, their shuddering horns, their gut wrenching sirens. They are hear together. Here. Together. And the books, and discs and old boxes with armatures and moving parts, it all seems like a primitive fantasy, like something that needed to be forgotten or eroticized, and some trickster came along and reminded us that we were once this, an assemblage of moving parts, of pieces of the pasts that we carried around with us. Pieces of ourselves that we could pick up, put down, put in storage. Would, could, wouldn't couldn't must, must not, will can might or just maybe. Like baggage handlers and hoarders of stuff. Long live free will, free listening, unencumbered. Instead, they will all be subjected to the ancient vibrations of a single groove, a masterful link between shape and electricity. The needle as the punctum of time taking you back to before the noise cancelling began, before we rode the filters to a place of calm. To a noisy world, filled with strange and unpleasant sounds. Exploding motors, waterfalls, garage doors, insects and air ducts, blenders and coffee grinders, rubber tire friction, office chit chat, clanking bottles, an old green house creaking in the typhoons of the catastrophic present tense. Tense, but quiet. Not a sound except for these four voices quietly vibing. 

# data[].attributes.headline
Planted in the soft, moist soil are plants that have lived long lives and are as healthy and strong as ever, their leaves full and free of any type of scars or damage. The sound of birds singing fills the air. The rainbow of light shining through the leaves warms the body of the skunk. There is a house nearby. On a full stomach and with nothing better to do and driven by curiousity the skunk makes his way slowly, cautiously, meticulously towards it.Looking like something out of a book of fairy tales, this picturesque house defines the word quaint. The shadow of some tall Western red cedars in the forest behind overlooks much of the place which serves as cover for him. There are some squirrels in the area, doing squirrel things. They are a curious bunch, squirrels, and not very likely to look both ways behind crossing. Focused on his destination and not one to be easily amused, the skunk continues his way towards the house.Peering through the windows on the ground floor he sees unfamiliar silhouettes. The figures resemble those from folklores told by his ancestors from a time before the metallic humanoids roam the lands.

# data[].attributes.subject
Planted in the soft, moist soil are plants that have lived long lives and are as healthy and strong as ever, their leaves full and free of any type of scars or damage. The sound of birds singing fills the air. The rainbow of light shining through the leaves warms the body of the skunk. There is a house nearby. On a full stomach and with nothing better to do and driven by curiousity the skunk makes his way slowly, cautiously, meticulously towards it.Looking like something out of a book of fairy tales, this picturesque house defines the word quaint. The shadow of some tall Western red cedars in the forest behind overlooks much of the place which serves as cover for him. There are some squirrels in the area, doing squirrel things. They are a curious bunch, squirrels, and not very likely to look both ways behind crossing. Focused on his destination and not one to be easily amused, the skunk continues his way towards the house.Peering through the windows on the ground floor he sees unfamiliar silhouettes. The figures resemble those from folklores told by his ancestors from a time before the metallic humanoids roam the lands.

# data[].attributes.headline
 and feels the warmth emanating from the surface, shudders, moves away from the light as the humans become aware that he has passed. The humans sit around the table vacillating between a collective consensus and individuating trajectories of fancy: they are imaging the future. There is a low hum of dread and the concern that the future is shrinking - that there is less and less of it available. But also the concern that thinking in this way will enact the shrinkage. The skunk moves along the sharp blades and rocks and...

# data[].attributes.subject
 and feels the warmth emanating from the surface, shudders, moves away from the light as the humans become aware that he has passed. The humans sit around the table vacillating between a collective consensus and individuating trajectories of fancy: they are imaging the future. There is a low hum of dread and the concern that the future is shrinking - that there is less and less of it available. But also the concern that thinking in this way will enact the shrinkage. The skunk moves along the sharp blades and rocks and...

# data[].attributes.body
You are in an old room, filled with old disks and CDs, where screens with slow logos move from one side to the other while people talk and talk. The screens, ancient as the room itself, are dusty and pixelated —nothing like what we can see these days. You smell the dusty screens —and you know the smell I am trying to describe— but you feel yourself, even before you walk into this holy room of classical music, that you are in a space that transcends time itself.

Music, as we know it now, does not exist in this room. It is not going straight to your brain. It does not smell clean and vaccinated, as it is recommended now.

It smells like our ancestors used to smell. And, oh well, it sounds like that as well. There is even a guitar (exactly like those you have seen in the museum) in the corner. You can see and smell the skunk, that must have been playing around the guitar —you know we have to respect the animals these days, there are not a lot like those anymore.

You grab the guitar and play a single note. Your computer knows this sound —hell, any old computer can play exactly this sound. But you feel it vibrate in your hand, as sure as the wind outside of this house, and this feeling is a whole different thing. Music moves in your hand, and technology still can't catch up with that feeling. Everybody moves around the professor’s museum of old music, walking with respect, as the steps and the occasional string interrupt the sound of the inclement wet coast weather.

# data[].attributes.body
the hands on the clock is still ticking. the professor's thoughts are vibrating through the room, his feelings for his vinyl records can be felt by each of his students in different ways and manners but the conclusion is the same.

the aftermath of the event