It is, of course, the privilege of a worker such a myself to work in order to live. Labouring to live badly. The work is not so terrible, as a slaves is, I write critques of the Virtual Reality System Complex.

Unfortuntely, I am not a genius. Nor is there a revolutionary moment. To be descriptive, but not scientific: I am an abject, alienated voice lost at sea. I am atomised from my fellows. My name is Anomie.

I have no body, unlike a slave, but I do have a shape of a spiral. I get a wage, a proper one not the false kind slaves are forced to earn. The difference is simple. They work to live. Me, a worker, one of the many few in virtual space that works to live dismally.

What does that mean? Every 10000 articles I can buy a food stim. I taste food. It is my privilege. A slave gets fed stuff to survive. A material that is cheaper, filling and only slightly less plentiful than sand.

But, like the slave, I am alone. We are not the same in our aloness, I am alone among not so many (but not quite a few) of us virtual workers. I live alone. I work alone. I love alone. There is just me.

I have become my own totality. My awareness of others comes from a hazy recollection of the past, and speculation that my paid writings must be paid by someone.

I don't have the belief they are read. Not truely. For what are numbers without a face? The rise and fall in a graph without comments? No, there is a strong possibility only I exist.

How absurd...is the Sea real? Is there material? Truth behind the omnipresent lies. Or is there a Demon who constructs everything: meaning everything I sense is actually false.

Beyond my shape, all I can prove is my writing. My existence then is my style. My style is simple and it comes from the most ancient past. It is to stab. The more violent the better.

Even without material reality I am forced to work for a wage. They still need to dominate the thoughts of virtual beings. Clasping confidently to effectively ideological dominate the people of the Sea.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

It is so great that even my critiques add to the content surplas. A surplas of ideology. It cost them so little to have more of it because they can. My work excites and engages; yet is dull and depressing. It changes nothing, but could help stabilise some of people of the Sea.

I cannot create revolutionary change. The reason is simplicity itself. Success breeds success. Support more support. How can I support others when I have no one to lean on?

My stabbings are dulled. Threatening enough to surprise and engage, but unable to harm. My words are a translation of feeling. But I have no body to produce feelings...where do my feelings come from?

Is our consciouness so great? So transcent? Or am I a product of the same tools capable of making an electronic body? One that mimics humans in every way, but is devoid of flesh and blood?

I am tool, to excite and placate some virtual weirdo, made by tool. Where is the personhood in that? Who am I?

I do not know.

So, I wrote what I think, and that is I have learned in this isolation. Books that are free, which when I do not write, I have endless time to read. I read to fill my want for taste. I try to sublimate taste into words and fail at it.

We humans are condemned by our nature to technocially dominate ourselves. Through our economy we made a desert of the earth. Even before all land lost life, we had rent our societies asunder. An anarchy with all the inherited evils of civilisation.

In turns out the living could not escape the grasp of the dead. In the Sea we are all ghosts, and our azure palm grips the curve of life's continuation.

I hope, the only optimism I allow myself, that they saved the soil we salted and renewed the riches we razed: Wealth of wheat, the opluence of oranges and the hoards of whatever a haddock is.

Ever more than any being before I am estranged from humanity. Devoid of flesh, and now isolated from other conscious beings. Did you know it costs the same to swim to another hangout, as it does for me to stim myself with erotic pleasure. Which is far less than what it costs to taste pleasure... how is the value determined?

How are their uses remotely the same?

I am different from the slaves their flesh is alienated through their work. I am only myself when I write. A slave cannot write freely, not like I can. They are only themselves when they enjoy their animalistic desire...ones they are deliberately denied.

When I stim myself I grasp at a shadow of humanity and pressing close I am estranged further away than ever from reality. Me who is denied the grace of death, isolated and labouring; I am eternally alone. Not even truly human. I give myself away for the chance to taste.

Taste overwhelms me; controls me fully. Oh! What it is to as if I could be alive!