serial_experiments\gave

The Church of Tenully just an hour ago i was full of feeling, the itches screaming beneath the blemishes of my flesh. but now it's all gone away, the tears that my hands grasped have returned to the wind and infinity, and all that's left to nurse my grown-over wounds are my cold dry hands. if i scream in anguish it comes out only a pitiable squeak. perhaps my anguish is imagined. the spores and tendrils of the interforest tremble within my veins, holy messengers of infection.  Old Man Hands, i ask you to come to the outer hills, on the north road through the interforest. From the end of the road walk a mile still north, where the path splits in two. Take the path to the west, and travel a mile yet, where you should come upon a baby grove. Fifty paces south of the path, there will be a hole, and a pile of dirt near it. All i ask of you is that you fill the hole with the dirt.  Only then might i be saved.  Was it a mistake to ever show my face to the beauty of the sun? Has nature

 You must talk to the media, not to the programmer. -Marshall McLuhan, The Medium is the Massage , 142 In the village there was a statue whose form changed per the average mood of the villagers. The day i arrived it took the form of an innocent naked child holding a flower. As the days passed and the blue skies turned grayer in anticipation of winter, the child morphed into wrinkly folds of flesh and the earth began to reject us all, spitting dust up beneath our feet. The growing wall loomed ever higher over the village, and every time i saw it, and even when i didn't see it i could feel it, the thought of my home on the other side seemed increasingly distant. There was another sculptor i met, young and ambitious and arrogant, who created a work that they claimed could not conceivably be influenced by environmental forces. The sculpture was handful of dirt. i watched the installation of the sculpture, as they spread the dirt over various locations on the village square. The wall, a

 Charlotte Moorman performs Sky Kiss https://lawrenceu-my.sharepoint.com/:p:/g/personal/roethleg_lawrence_edu/EbIV8jGX-lVNpM1qE-ZJXiwB7GANEU1gFxSXDS0icWKZ6w?e=BzpwZH i thought you should know that Moorman's TV Cello, while progressive for its time, has now gone out of style. today is the age not merely of the Computer cello, but of the Computer, for a computer can do everything a cello can but better. were Moorman to go behind a computer to play it the world wouldn't watch, but in, were she to go into the computer, transmute flesh into data. the world would have no choice but to watch, our eyes are no longer our own, but belong to the powers that command the flows of data. the interforest is expanding even as our cities of numbers combat its expansion, precisely because our cities of numbers combat its expansion, putting off collapse. the swan of saint-saens played by an aspiring student cellist will be the perpetual swan song of a new despeeate generation, the vanguard of art