Layer 01 - Self constellations by Dale Brett

Pixelated sirens manifest in a whiteout scene. Angelic expressions blur in cognitive machinations. Dreams of a face bordered by floor-length silver hair. Our star-clustered interactions abandoned due to increasing disinhibition. Garbled text splurts out a shared pool of puddled introjection. Interactions with haunted portals demolish the distinction between the online and the 'real'. Code refracted through our violeted, violated veins as we scroll-surf tidal walls of text. Your glowing online voice ascends in a hellscape of warring avatars. Integration. Dissociation. I wait silently for the '...'

Turbulent digital detritus fills the USB ports of my fluid-flushed ventricles. An intrapsychic world amalgamates with the layered rhizome of your online insignia. Too late to reverse the electrification of my jejunum, the Vibralux hum of your logged-out soul system has already become absorbed. Importance of every reaction bookmarked in the ctrl+n window of my intestinal history. Slipping, simpering command prompts disrupt keystrokes. Feelings shuttered and stuttered as we pillow-daze into pathetic compatibility tests online. Thoughts translucently clear: even the smallest voice will expand in this connected cacophony.

Bubbling surreptitious emotions a built-in opportunity to avert your eyes. Floating characters and static hardware bordered by milky-plush glow render it hard to look away. We alter the state of play to destabilise inner-self demarcations. Every external expectation considerably out of line. Vacillate in dissociation, revel in asynchronous communication. Interlocked, unlocked, totally alien-hungry intersected! Fragmented, delirious, distorted – we are addicted to the rising-throat feeling of overloaded interpretations. The digital interface is our only way to not feel utterly dejected. Something revealed, something hidden – distinctions between where your form begin and mine ends d i s a p p e a r.

Deliver me an oversaturation of information. Extract what pertains as we self-censor incoming thoughts. Stumble and lock ourselves out with awkward robot confessions, suppressed android rejections. Exercises in hyper-connection neither present nor absent as our bodies twitch, antennae half-dead and semi-alive. The hallucinatory collage of silver strand decay makes me dizzy, noxiously nauseous, fundamentally sick.

Wetware fever dreams erase my flesh-past as avian-sharp eyes fixate on present day ::: p r e s e n t ::: time.

My inner mind drips with moon-mangled moments, externally imploding when our uploaded brains cross wires. Touching the red to the blue is the only way to get notified of an impending shock.

'SHOT IT, BURY IT, EXCAVATE IT, SIGN IT – LOOK AT THE CEILING IN THE DARKNESS AND BLUSH.