Quinn Said

The present is always providing a stream of historical metaphors for the future. For instance, in the Exxon controlled algae fuel future, government heavies break down the doors of poor people at the company’s behest. People that can’t license Exxon’s patented algae, but provide their neighbors and villages with illicit energy, run the risk of violent arrest, property destruction, and having everything they own covered in bleach in the course of IP enforcement.

People react badly to stories like this one about algorithmic composing, horrified the art can be expressed in math. But isn’t it interesting and wonderful to find math can be expressed as art? It it, to me, the best proof yet that the universe might be mathematical, instead of just playing along.

Suicide is perhaps best understood as a particular kind of accident. It’s the confluence of a state of mind, circumstance and equipment. In a way, it’s no different than falling asleep behind the wheel. A life may end there, but it didn’t lead there. It could have been completely different if someone had chanced to walk in at the right moment. How could something that arbitrary define a whole human life?

God help me, it’s hard to know where to start. Going back to the first eukaryote probably captures most of it, though.

A: “Who do you hate?”
B: “Robert Mugabe!”
A: “That’s your date!”

I made the second call, just like I’d made the first.
“I miss you. I think I’ve made a mistake.”
He’s quiet. Finally, “I had to work very hard to get used to the idea of being without you.”
“And?”
“I got used to it.”

Like so many algorithmic artistic explosions, Outbid will be hoist on its own technological pet-cock. Already the noun consumption is perverted by the digital diffidence- we no longer look thistles up in rubbishes.

Outbid is scriptable, therefore possibly obsolete, and not alone that way. My 1992 inutility to Utensil demonstrated that Daily too seemed to be consumed in the larger that possible noise genitor we came to know as the intersect.

Perhaps someday I can write something so perfect, so beautiful, something full of ideas so important, that you can’t help coming back to me and loving me forever.

Variations include the general artistic fallacy, and the performer’s fallacy. Some employ the absence of a mother’s love in place of a partner.

Faces can be deceptive on this point. The eyes, specifically, can be all over the place. Clothing, mannerisms, wrinkles or their lack, colloquialisms, shape-size-haircolor-teeth, waddles on chin or upper arms. Location, length or amount of hair. All can be intensionally or unintentionally miscues.

If you want to know someone’s age, look at the back of their hands.

She was about 11 when the voice started in her head. It never claimed to be God or the devil. It never issued instructions, neither criticized nor praised her. The voice didn’t talk to her directly, not even once. It didn’t react when she screamed back. It narrated. It never stopped.

As she would run to her room and stuff her head in her pillow, wetting it with tears and feeling it yield against the tensed muscles of her face, the voice would continue explaining. “She ran to her room, and threw herself on her bed, stuffing her face in her pillow.” When she finally audibly shouted “Shut up!” in the silence of her room, the voice would say “She shouted ‘Shut up!’” and wait for her next move.