Posthuman Blues

Today I drank a great deal of coffee and talked myself hoarse. I feel like I've swallowed a cactus. Salad and French-fries for lunch, microwaved pasta for dinner.

A pleasant ride home from work listening to instrumental music on NPR. Synesthetic stirrings: seething lattices of blue and silver light, fragments of shimmering chrome . . .

Not enough time.

I'm battling a tide of machine-reality, mouth barely above water . . . flesh and asphalt and metal blur into a forbidding gestalt. The cold embrace of circuits; a galaxy reduced to lusterless clockwork and the thoughtless twitching of insects. Giddy compasses and obstinate time-zones, scribbled maps and unnamed streets winding through indeterminate corporate wastelands, stripmalls piled atop one another in silent architectural copulation.