The tagger isn’t in a gang; the gang didn’t want him. Freak. Nerve damage. Will be killed because he’s a freak but mostly because he tagged. A shape based on how his own name sounds to him. On a sign asking people to care for the pocket park it’s in, local initiative, flanked by a church and the parking lot of the plant. Crap, bottles collect; someone tends. Someone tried to rub away the tag. By the time she crosses the parking lot, his sister has twenty minutes before she must return to the plant. Eats healthy: stuff from home. Rabbits have begun to enter this region. She had never seen a real rabbit. Six feet away, one stares. She hopes no one kills it. It’s sideways to her, doesn’t watch with both eyes, like men or dogs, only one. Is it sick?
At first there were only computers. I sacrificed small animals to keep mine running. Eventually we made a separate peace. Separate, certainly, from its purposes. But the means kept multiplying, and were repeatedly explained to me, in simple terms, with progressively less patience, by people I liked less and less. The end remained unclear. Why did you do that? Why, while doing it, would you take a photo of it and broadcast it to the world? Is that person an athlete, musician, prostitute, or anything worthwhile? What is a “meme”? Is it a value? Is it ethical or aesthetic? Can you tell? What exactly is a “neckbeard”? Why is someone who wears one contemptible? Do I have one? Is it better or worse than the hairs coming out of my ears? They aren’t hairs, by the way. I communicate through them with Galactic Central, which accuses you of lack of imagination.
Seeing in you perhaps the privileged classes whites men father themselves Preparing to flee then fleeing preferring the filth outside to yours …
If you live long enough they give up nagging you to change It would be physically impossible and anyhow they’re gone