Posthuman Blues

And so my three-day weekend comes to an unremarkable end. Frothy chai and peppermint. Blistering heat and conspicuously empty sidewalks; on the way back from the ATM across the street, I thought I heard fanatical screaming from the general direction of the Horse Fountain. The hallway outside my apartment is sauna-like.

I feel like one of Abbott's Flatlanders, missing out on a whole spectrum of reality. I'm a node of awareness encapsulated in a ridiculous frame of temperamental meat. Maddening sweat; omnipresent limbic urges like the taut strings of a sadistic puppeteer. "Hungry? Sick? Strung up by the wrists?"

The acid sting of unwanted endorphins. Dreams of conversation and conversations like fragments of dreams, latching onto the lining of my skull until I'm dizzy with their weight. My head sags to one side and splits open, oozing steam and sparks. I gather cracked silicon in disbelieving palms and see my universe reiterated in delicate copper whorls.