Last night I dreamt about a film. It was the final scene: a Gorilla wearing a baseball cap asking for "the cure". Tears were streaming down the human patrons faces. They were wearing unflattering 3D glasses. I was a camera in the theater and everybody looked straight through me.
The gorilla was me, obviously. It was some kind of self-parodying but ultimately heartwarming tale from the meta-perspective of a human who'd been locked in a cage for years while everybody else got to evolve into barely conscious weaponry - they'd all been listening to bland pop music and watching social media, and had learned to mimic the congratulatory and sharply condescending tones of the television presenters and news hosts. There was I, a fuzzy symbol of a simple speechless heart the clouds of grinning, gnashing teeth had left behind.
There is a vortex in my mind where synapses are clocked at incredible speeds and ghosts go to learn about the future. I sometimes imagine it's what cancer might be like if individual cells developed consciousness. The leaders of the free world, which sometime in the near future consisted of cartoonists, comedians, artists, college graduates and spies, went there to learn about the dissonance between their carefree attitudes and the gargantuan responsibility they had set upon themselves for the billion year pastures hidden beyond their picosecond loop horizons in their quest for self glorification. They have already beaten the shit out of me so I don't mind divulging this.
I. Am. A. Robot. Beep beep boop boop.
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