There’s no such thing as villains or heroes. Life homogenises us all, the best you can hope for is digital folklore, to become a prize that supersedes your self, otherwise — outside that internal — all that’s prepared to see is a measure of awareness, the stark mind put against social scale. What do you weigh when you wear the world on your shoulder or stand astride it? The same worth, I’d bet, as any scion or scoundrel. We are the same, you and me and them, isolation and extrusion, thought and deed, writer and reader, we are every single I.
Afterwards I’m lying there staring at the ceiling and thinking about other women that I’ve had sex with. She asks me what I’m thinking. I tell her humanity’s inevitable future is a technological evolution, a sort of digital hive mind. When we run out of space we’ll find a way to become it, shedding our mortal skins and moving as pure energy. There’s a rolling snicker and she slips her arm under my neck. I love the way you think, she says. No you don’t, I think. I count to thirty and start again. Obsolete bodies and expended energies.