Layer 01 - Self constellations by Dale Brett

Pixelated sirens manifest in a whiteout scene. Angelic expressions blur in cognitive machinations. Dreams of a face bordered by floor-length silver hair. Our star-clustered interactions abandoned due to increasing disinhibition. Garbled text splurts out a shared pool of puddled introjection. Interactions with haunted portals demolish the distinction between the online and the 'real'. Code refracted through our violeted, violated veins as we scroll-surf tidal walls of text. Your glowing online voice ascends in a hellscape of warring avatars. Integration. Dissociation. I wait silently for the '...'

Turbulent digital detritus fills the USB ports of my fluid-flushed ventricles. An intrapsychic world amalgamates with the layered rhizome of your online insignia. Too late to reverse the electrification of my jejunum, the Vibralux hum of your logged-out soul system has already become absorbed. Importance of every reaction bookmarked in the ctrl+n window of my intestinal history. Slipping, simpering command prompts disrupt keystrokes. Feelings shuttered and stuttered as we pillow-daze into pathetic compatibility tests online. Thoughts translucently clear: even the smallest voice will expand in this connected cacophony.

Bubbling surreptitious emotions a built-in opportunity to avert your eyes. Floating characters and static hardware bordered by milky-plush glow render it hard to look away. We alter the state of play to destabilise inner-self demarcations. Every external expectation considerably out of line. Vacillate in dissociation, revel in asynchronous communication. Interlocked, unlocked, totally alien-hungry intersected! Fragmented, delirious, distorted – we are addicted to the rising-throat feeling of overloaded interpretations. The digital interface is our only way to not feel utterly dejected. Something revealed, something hidden – distinctions between where your form begin and mine ends d i s a p p e a r.

Deliver me an oversaturation of information. Extract what pertains as we self-censor incoming thoughts. Stumble and lock ourselves out with awkward robot confessions, suppressed android rejections. Exercises in hyper-connection neither present nor absent as our bodies twitch, antennae half-dead and semi-alive. The hallucinatory collage of silver strand decay makes me dizzy, noxiously nauseous, fundamentally sick.

Wetware fever dreams erase my flesh-past as avian-sharp eyes fixate on present day ::: p r e s e n t ::: time.

My inner mind drips with moon-mangled moments, externally imploding when our uploaded brains cross wires. Touching the red to the blue is the only way to get notified of an impending shock.