I’m making my slow retreat from here, this place. This non-place of shimmering nowheres, this network of will-o-the-wisps, built by war and fed by id. We were never in control. It never had those qualities inherent to all Good Things.
Mostly, my body is beginning to remember that it will die. My hands ache, and sometimes my blood burns me from the inside out. I ask myself how long I can continue on like this, and the real answer is forever; if I was given forever.
So I’ve begun the withdrawal. Large things go first, in a way: big immediacies. Then the smaller things. The idle conversations, the river of images not worth even a single word. The pushermen. Large things – a different kind of large – are what’s left.
Where do you want to die? my body asks. So I’ve been building my tomb, the place where my time will end. Because I want to die thinking private thoughts, looking at real things. I don’t want to die here. What worse deathbed could there be than the internet?