Alone on this earth, I’m no more academic, within cells interlinked.

There are other kinds of dysphoria beyond the popular kind about gender, to be borne.

All that is left are the sick, the poor, and the forgotten.

I think I’m going to stop placing any attention on the ancient trailer and its trim and screens, and envision a world in which I have a new one to play with someday. I want to instead fix the shell, build a practice tiny house in my backyard, and then concern myself with Transmission.

The 1982 Bladerunner was all LA, or San Angeles, but in the 2017 sequel the wave hits that pacific seawall and bounces back into the Vegas desert just as if it was written by HST and not PKD.

The Strip is a toxic orange.

Every frame is lonely.

The Joi of the movie is exactly the same joi that those blue droids were trying to sell you last year.

To be special is to be something more, something greater, something unique and unprecedented. Something that cannot be … Replicated.

Our hero’s world has been flipped, not upside down, but right side up.

Sure, you’re real for me.

Proximity to something honest.

(Time isn’t real, but it consumes us and forgets us nevertheless.)

Proximity.

To Purpose.