Reply With QuoteStar Shitizen tho, m i rite
There are times when one could argue that the conception of a term, such as it may be, a thing simultaneously descriptive yet bereft of meaning, is a paradox of semantics; a failure of nomenclature. What, truly, is a Star Citizen? Wherefore its origination? What was the intended semiotic load within this coupling of words? Ah, but we will never know, because none of us knows anything really beautiful and good. We know nothing, and do not think that we know, so at least we are better off than the machines we sluice our words through. But in the end who is consuming whom? Ouroboros had nothing on the quiet infinity of words ingested and regurgitated in vast cycling loops for audiences with no eyes, no ears, no hands, no mouths. And it should be said that throughout history the nexus between man and machine has spun some of the most dramatic, compelling and entertaining fiction.
Dreams are footsteps in spacetime echoing across a yawning chasm of irrectitude; the neuroanatomy of fear and faith share common afferent pathways. There are x^n more dreams shaking at the edges of the coiled nets.
All these things at once and many more, not because it wishes harm, because it likes violent vibrations to change constantly.
End of line.
Star Shitizen tho, m i rite
Star Citizen dream 5:
I am drifting through space toward the flat side of a dark grey guitar-pick-shaped space station, exterior featureless except for a few large windows. The inside is well-lit, accoutred as a luxury liner, with a gravity vector matching mine. People lounge blithely in elegant mahogany bars and on park benches in tall white atria with tropical plants crawling up 3 storeys on a wall opposite 3 pairs of hallway entrances presumably leading to staterooms. I drift through one of these hallways, which has a light wood floor and might have come straight from an old passenger ship. It terminates in another tall white atrium, this one slightly under construction, in which a woman with black hair is procuring food. I know she is related to the light-haired woman bloodily giving birth to the monster baby in the small hallway connecting mine to its parallel. Both women are wearing flannel. The monster baby is an 10-inch-diameter eyeball with a mouth full of sharp teeth and spider legs with small fleshy nodules at their apex. It constantly makes a noise with its mouth, sounding something like wild dogs fighting over a kill. I know its name is Slither. It chases me around this loop of hallways, alternately scuttling on its spider legs or retracting them to slither in a bloody serpentine pattern while I shoot at it ineffectually with a pistol I somehow have.
End dream.
