Dead but dreaming of electric sheep

replace me

• You don’t remember why you are there, don’t remember traveling to this house. You do not perseverate on such thoughts, though, which are distant, nagging annoyances, and not as pressing a matter as the in-media-res conversation and your hummingbird-wings eyelids. You mash your palms into your eyes again. Your hands sink inside your head, to the depth of your wrists, mercifully stopping the manic, strobing flutter. Still, somehow, you are able to see. You are marooned on a pea-green couch, a long one that extends to the edges of your periphery. You sit slouched and your legs are vines growing haphazardly into the room.

• In mathematics, a point is defined as a place or a position, and a point has no measure. One cannot claim a point is infinitesimally small, as that would imply size. One cannot say a point has size zero either, as that implies it can be measured. The closest analogy you come to is that the click—announcing its nothingness with nothing—is a position, a point inside yourself, the fragile self you store in your equally fragile head.

• Julia stares at this ludicrous man and glimpses the terrible truth that he and hundreds like him, including the great Janice Moore, cocooned within ivory-tower boardrooms and glad-handing in high-rise law offices, make daily, greedy, myopic, purposefully destructive, off-the-cuff decisions that affect the lives and economic well-being of millions of people who have zero say in the matter, in any of the matters.