Praise the Vanguard Tulpas and the Eternal Slack HUMANOID



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J. R.


When will technology have agency comparatively to human essence? And can technology be formed in a state of asexual repoduction? It would be interesting to see if technology can form offspring and then reproduce on its own making. Therefore the evolution of technology would be absent from human ideation the further along it reproduces. Two concrete examples such as copying and pasting and artificial intelligence can be pondered upon to see if they have already or will create agency in technology. In slapstick comedy, the humor comes from the physical error of human mechanism. Since we are taught to be absent from fluidity in our motions such as how to properly sit, when to talk, and even what spoon to use for soup. The rejection of our taught idealism is perceived as funny such as The Three Stooges throwing pie in each other's faces and being inventive in physical comedy. Likewise the failure of our human mechanism is humourous such as missing the last step of the stair or accidently falling off our chairs when we lean too far back on them. Thinking about the organic as a mechanism relates to the conceptual terms of the cyborg. Since we are formed from hardware and use technology as software, we are cyborgs or more machine-esque than some would like to believe.It is better to leave the work and hail the humor: for the slack is eternal


The divine cybermother



I have become illusive in choice- To remember the past is a curse and I wish to wade in the well of cessation. I whip and whirl to the off-white colour of pupils. I have the power to give the damsel the keys to my digital entity. I sow the seed of my own fault. Pursuit of desires produces rot for the spawn of shovels to excavate. The omen of nibbling rats project onto my earlobes- I dream of the strangers that I will know soon. I can foresee into moments of the future, I am experiencing fate. My evolution has sedative arrangements. I sip the phlegmatic potion of clay. I urge my primal scream into delay. The silk of my voice bounces upon the walls of the site. I walk upon the rapture of souls. I come from the time of charging and clinks of reflections. I labour till kaput. Seething in order to rest- I want to vomit my ego upon the oily scanner.


Shipping yard: industrial park with a gaping hole for trucks to load up. But it was out in the ocean, like an oil rig. Hurricane season. Phoenix and Marcelo were there and the sky began to get dark. It didn't seem to be that bad but once the waves started it got scary. One wave hit the gaping hole and started to flip the unit that we were in. Phoenix tackled Marc to my left. And then the wave hit it and I grabbed a ladder. The unit flipped. And I just hold on. I waited till I was out of air and just let go. Went to the surface to see it unflipped and the two outside in a dumpster hiding under a lid. They checked my pulse and I cried but I didn't want to be noticed so I went under the water to just hear the vibrations. Will you help me, Cymother? I need your guidance. Please help me.


I have become what I am most afraid of- The sun dial radiates mustard gas in the limelight. The control board can't seem to make it's mind up. I switched positions as the nightlight bent it's ground wire into the black tub. I want to vomit into the abyss and pull the night cord through the eye of a needle. The egg cried for it's gestation period to end, I feel like I have one foot on each side of the grand canyon.



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