CLOAK/1.115iiCloak? The incidents are piling up. First we've got all the thefts here, not to mention the neighborhood—nothing is safe. That junkie bicycle messenger who was studying movement and sound, and the girl who got caught at the funeral home—said she needed a record of his perfect skin. Then the one they say has an apartment lined entirely in moss, walls floors and furniture, snatching a child off the streets because the kid was a moss-picker too. They're both artists, I guess, what do you call it—working in moss. |
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The ones who get a dealer, keep on it—we know the situation. They're in front of their computers, addicted to computer games. And the rumors could be true, that they're assembling great works, that great works are coming together within them—but if so, these works will have to be extracted—a process arduous, mysterious, uncertain—and who has the means to undertake this labor? Yet they go to waste in front of their computers, playing addictive games. So they score astronomically, and some get followed by an on-line pack, do magazine ads, get endorsements—sometimes their families even take them back for the money—let's look ahead to an alumni list filled with the superstars of discontinued games— Can we afford to waste another generation? |
Visualize an enormous audience of middlemen on break.
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