One scene after the next in a picture show of unimaginably monotonous events.

More Vancouver adventures! No fucking idea why i made the paragraphs all messed up, or what even I was thinking when I wrote this. That's what happened when I lived in Vancouver, and the same would happen to you too.

5:25 am, time to get up. The mindless routine of an average Monday morning passed over my glazed eyes in a slipstream of blurred motion. A raincoat found its way from the bottom of an unkempt coat rack, when it suddenly seemed to gravitate up the length of my arms and around my sluggish torso. An indiscernible amount of time later, I found myself walking down a brown-carpeted hallway and it was there that I decided to force my mind to the next degree of wakefulness, which in truth was only several degrees away from a comatose state. A dozen footsteps and steel entry way later, I was outside, where the rain fell steadily and the sun had not risen. The street was plastered with different sorts of brightly coloured markings and bizarre symbols that I had never seen, which lead me to believe that they had just recently been applied there, but it seemed to me that such an unusual artistic demonstration should be preserved.

Many years ago, the caveman who possessed the finest rocks and the sturdiest dead animal hide would have been revered among his Neanderthal brethren. A further examination of present times might reveal that it would be not too astronomical a deduction to suggest that things have changed very minutely from those days. Instead of rocks and bacteria-ridden carcasses, it is rhinestone-encrusted cellular phones and motored vehicles with platinum coated, spinning rims. How far could one take this analogy? Very far, in fact, but as we shall see, the ones carrying out the observation (such as myself) are none too different from the tribes of old.

It all started with an idea. This idea was strange at first, and perhaps completely foreign altogether. It was not an idea that usually occurred, where food, procreation, or the human excrement were the usual matters at hand. No, for this single thought was clandestine in nature, and it went beyond the realm of conscious understanding. The possessor of this thought may have been struck dumbfounded by its very existence, partially due to the fact that such a thought appeared to have no significance to his or her overall being. Perhaps it transcended the physical confines of an organism operating on billions upon billions of biochemical processes, and yet it still appeared as vague as it did when it first developed. Perhaps that was the essence of it. It was destined to remain as a fuzzy remnant of a psychological interaction in which several or more realms of conscious thought interpretation were simultaneously blurred into obscurity, never to be retrieved again.

It would have been a tough journey for those cavemen, but the ones with the shiny stones and the nice caves would have been adamantly proud of their possessions, and so they would have died proud to have owned such things. Ownership says a lot about a person, for their entire existence as human beings can be understood once one possesses a firm understanding of their items of ownership and mannerisms by which they interact with such things. Someone who punches their television when it goes fuzzy is likely to be quick to anger and have little respect for things. However, this description barely scratches the surface of meaning beneath this barbaric interaction between man and machine. It could imply that stress resulting from numerous unfinished projects had been stewing angrily within his mind for an extended duration of time, and it when finally bubbled over, perhaps triggered by the unfortunate malfunctioning television, it was transformed into physical aggression directed towards it.

You see, it all makes sense, and it’s all connected with strong, intricate complexity, like a widows (not windows) web laced with glue. And not the shitty kind you use to paste together construction paper and cardboard. I’m talking about the Krazy shit, where your fingers become bonded together from an accidental  misapplication.

Space isn’t even that big of a deal. Stars are burning balls of hydrogen. When the hydrogen’s all used up, heavier elements try to take over and it just keeps getting hevier as fuck until it begins to collapse and, depending on its initial solar mass, the star collapses into a friggin’ quasar

I never remembered the streets of where I went, often because it seemed like a waste to commit them to memory, but I have no idea why. It would have made much more sense to establish a mental system by which directions and locations could be readily accessed without causing too much interference, but that would probably involve a direct neural interface enhancement. Not cheap, by today’s standard anyway, because it was clear to me that the cost of such a device would soon plummet once far improved versions were released several months later. The business was rife with frequent obsolescence and the casual discarding of biotech that only weeks ago would have been considered cutting edge, but that was the way of the world, and more importantly, the way of business. The fact that any individual possessing DNA structurally efficient enough to support multiple microcellular adjustments could waltz into a no-name establishment and purchase devices reputed to enhance long and short term memory capacity, abstract reasoning, and language generation centers, for prices that seemed astronomical at first and a bargain several weeks later, was often perplexing to the casual observer, who usually stands by waiting for the best in bargain basement sales on refurbished biochips. Lunatics, I say. The only times you can trust that shit are if there’s no other choice or you’re looking for a cheap and easy way to partake in assisted suicide. It was a rough business, and despite the negative media it persisted through every economic downturn. In fact its growth in market share was exponential, since every out-of-work ex-employee of yesterdays deuterium factory needed a new edge on the job market. A neural edge. A cognitive boost that sliced through brainwaves in zero time flat, like an electrified rapier targeting large sectors of dormant brain cells and eviscerating them into a carved stream of infinite stimulation.  It all sounded really spiffy and neat, and then you’d get the cowboys who’d crack the safeties and really do some work,  but when it all came down to it there just weren’t enough key generators in the world to enforce that kind of misbehavior. Not that it mattered, but if kids wanted mess around with the foundation and burn out the soft tissues underlying a vital series of synaptic pathways, let em’ be fucking vegetables for all I care.

After walking down the sidewalk for awhile it became clear to me that I was developing a vitamin D deficiency. Natural sunlight was far too obscured by thick ominous clouds and photochemical smog lately that I hadn’t many chances to get some, so things were going to be shitty today. I never needed to worry about those things in the past, but times had changed. Frequently, the sun would poke through the dark clouds and reveal itself for several minutes, but lately this hadn’t been happening for some reason. I guess the UV radiation wasn’t helpful anyway, it was all bullshit. Perhaps a RAM upgrade would cure my ailments, but this solubility shit was getting on my nerves. For whatever reason I was repeating the same patterns, partaking in the same actions, yet I failed to register even this minutely significant detail, it permeated my subconscious like water leaking through a sieve, yet I was completely blind to my own existence, trapped within the confines of a skeletal structure wrapped in flesh and blood. What was to become of my degenerating nervous system? Who knows, but the subtle manipulation of a myriad sources eventually evoked frustration and confusion beyond all belief, and no the kind that could be explained rationally. Nothing seemed to make sense except when pharmaceutical intervention took place, and that was none too frequent at present either. All one could do was sigh and hope tomorrow would bring with it some semblance of understanding, because there appeared to be no stability, no base from which to return when dreams became diluted by the rancor of day-to-day. And the ones who were on top of it all swore to not make the same mistakes, though it was clear to me that every person was somewhat limited by the extent of their biological programming. 

Brainbox pollution evolved from the tiny space, and there wasn’t much that could be done about its mergence. It had nothing to do with notions considered less than optimistic, but for whatever reasoned there appeared to be some form of unambiguous doubt surrounding the previous consideration. Well fuck. It didn’t at all seem to make sense to begin with. The dreams were recurring as usual, and quite consistent. What did they mean? It was a crapshoot, whatever that meant, and things became less turbulent as the soundwaves carried along their musical information.

The brainbox, located at the forefront of the human organism, contains a very complex and interesting piece of macherinery, engineered to meet the highest standards of cognitive manipulation, like a computer program that had been designed to evolve and interpret visual information with impossible clarity. This information didn’t appear as pixels and polygons drawn on to liquid crystal displays, for it was chemically produced in the visual cortex instead, which far outranks the capabilities of conventional graphics processing units, at least by today’s standards, but perhaps in a few century’s time there may be comparable technology, though it would have to involve some kind of biotechnology adapted to interface with a computer, and since there would be more brain emulation in such a device, it wouldn’t be outlandish to suggest that individuals versed in such technologies would derive the most benefit from it.

Those who might attempt to play the role of a detractor, whether or not that may imply intellectual deficiency or simply cognitive malformation, will be pleased to know that occupational opportunities will always exist within realms of thought maladaptive to such advancements. A brief examination of the current train of events in relation to an overall extrapolation of information derived from instances of pattern recognition may reveal a disturbing observation. However, no facet of the human condition is capable of describing it logically. Therefore, it shall be discarded for the present moment in light of more pressing events, such as the acquisition of monetary wealth which can be represented by the collection of exorbitantly priced material products of human ingenuity.