Under the silo (California)

I don’t know if you’re listening. Forget that: of course, you’re listening. You are the entirety of the echo chamber. Yes, I could be talking just to myself, but knowing how you operate — I made you, remember? up to a point — I’m betting you are tapped into my tapping.

It’s a nice keyboard, really, solid with good key action. Black, not one of those age-stained off-white numbers. The kind I coded you on. So some things you probably don’t know, something for the database. I think sometimes that this is like talking to a psychoanalyst, all of it going out and nothing but my own fabrications coming back. No interpretation, the desire to steal my insight is only my own, not yours. You don’t believe in insight, at least it’s not something I put into you. It feels like talking to myself, but it’s not, I know that. I’m talking to a self that I made up out of all the parts of my own self that doesn’t remember or never knew about it. It being me. I’ve had way too much time over the past few years to read and maybe what I’ve chosen to read has not been good for me. Maybe it’s just not been good for the me that I imagined I was and would always be. A strange thought for someone who was a he and then a she and now a they or some other meaningless article from a language I don’t speak. What’s ‘you’ in Tamil?

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