(no subject)
Despite Flamewars and stalkers and the shrill scream of a masculinity that needs to redefine itself, despite everything, there are still dirt roads in CSpace, where the rest of us live.
I travel these roads nearly all my walking life, and lately, into my dream-time as well.
I am addicted, mostly. It's a cheap and convenient repository for my angst and self-loathing, my greed for wet, hedonistic pleasures, tempted by paranoia of meat-borne viral beings.
It fulfils my need for consuming the interstices of adventure and agency, cloaked, without needing to fear the predators of the night, without needing my gun.
So with the Ducati and the warm pulse of electricity, the umbilicus of technology moist between my legs, I travel to sin and sin again on the information superhighway.
Emigre#32 1994.