Transformers
My interface is broken. Everything runs into each other like an oil slick. The lustre of the display has diminished; the normally vitreous morning news reporters have become iridescent purple and green monsters. Their voices crack like distorted whips against my eardrums. I try to switch over to my inbox but an invasive pulsating red light begins to flash and messages full of meaningless characters and symbols keep randomly appearing and disappearing, leaving a residue burnt on the screen. I try to send a message out to anybody on my contact list, but the contrast becomes so great that I can’t read any of the menu options. The screen switches into negative and a high pitched noise like steam escaping starts to wail at me. There is a pervasive neon purple flash and I think for sure it’s about to explode.
But then I see the world like normal. All beautifully coordinated shades of teal and orange; peace and harmony in a simple bi-chromatic dynamic of colour. The noises have all subsided too. I feel myself stop tensing.
I go outside to breathe the fresh morning air and clear my unit. Maybe it overheated. Out in my garden I see an orange peel bird sitting on a blue branch. It chirrups and squawks before flying off into the marine sky blending in against the amber whale clouds. Without warning it plummets straight down to the floor where it disintegrates on impact. Rich yellow blood spreads out from its fragmented caramel corpse like a thrown custard pie. I was almost smiling before that. I almost could have forgotten about my interface nearly dying on me.
I walk over to the bird and stoop to inspect it. I can’t tell why it suddenly died. The mechanisms have all been destroyed by the collision with the ground.
Everything begins to blur – I get the sensation that things are moving to the left and moving fast. I can’t exactly make anything out, but I keep getting the suggestion of motion, like something grand might be happening, but on a scale too large and too fast to be able to properly perceive. I try setting my interface to super zoomed out but it’s jammed at 1:1. I occasionally gasp as some kind of monstrous form zips in front of me in a blitzkrieg attack on my senses. Voluptuous and suggestive, charming and engaging, yet paradoxically retrograde and binary. My world becomes a series of archetypal movements and patterns with nothing about them to cohesively put them together in a meaningful sequence. Navy blues explode into pastel flames of burnt orange that dissipate into soft turquoise noise. It doesn’t make any sense, but it doesn’t have to. It’s my world, and I feel comfortable here.
463
Leaky Libido 