I exist in a constant state of yearning, and I always have. I fear a Fulfilled me— I fear she would be less present and less vital. I hate that I oscillate widely between wanting to be seen and not wanting to be seen at all. The universe and I are locked in mutual incomprehension. Chaos is depleting me. I am a coward. And I need new shoes.

In the Greater Machine Age, we—will—all—be—Materials.