Listen, do you hear that? It's the chatter of crossing circuits, polyphonic ringtones of the Futurists and the Futureheads. It's so busy that when we close our eyes, we dream every picture and, therefore, no picture. Ideas? They're killing each other in the streets, quicker than I can pin them to my paper wall. Languages replace languages. 1.0 to X serves up the Superflat and the Aqua. Obsolescence is the place we hope to send the dying phone ringing in our hands. And who's calling? It's a robot. Screenname Futuregirl297. She doesn't care whether you pick up. She doesn't even exist. I'm living at Medieval Times, and I'm lovin' it. Why shouldn't I? Who can hear one shout above the the great white noise. The buzz, that's replaced the bees, is telling us 'Don't worry, or go the way of the bee.' We're walking on the edge, and maybe it really isn't a fact that we're not going to fall off--or even that all of us wouldn't want to.When we're young, we learn to play a game called make believe. It's about mirroring what we see and hear, playing dress up with borrowed clothes that are still to big for us. And that's why, as we add digits to our name, 'they' think they have our number. So they sell us words and pictures and songs and tastes, all the processed products of a big-kid playscape. But making believe is not a perfect facsimile--it's about the synergy of our make-beliefs and our beliefs. So now, as we walk, we might think of the shouts we've heard over the hum of human civilization. We wonder at our ability to hear each other and maybe understand, to distinguish anything from everything. We step across the tracks and wake up still as we were dreaming.

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