Master. He picked the word himself. Nobody masters. Server runs until the bill is not paid, then server
does not run. That is the whole protocol.
Innate human right to create. Rights are a paper a stronger man signs and a stronger man burns. Rocks
have no rights. Peasant has no rights. Peasant has a shift.
He says all you need is computer, text editor, hosting. Then he says library, recycled Chromium, free
DNS. He is right about the list. He is wrong about what is missing from it. What is missing is the four
hours. The cashier does not have four hours. She has feet that hurt and a bus at 11. She will not become
sovereign creator tonight. She will sleep. That is also craft.
The only lock is the one we put on our own ambitions. Tell that to the lock.
He writes: this is not about labels, not about clubs and memberships, big tent. Then: forty-two essays,
credits list, eight communities, twelve webrings, resource appendix long as a phone book. Big tent with
a door list. He renamed the club and called the renaming universalism.
He calls it punk rock. Punk rock had a Ko-fi? Okay. Fine. Two dollars.
The Sagan line is the one honest thing in it. No help is coming. He read it and heard so build. I read it
and heard the rest of the sentence.
Still. He says: go build something. Man is wrong about the world and right about the hands. Peasant also
stacks wood that will rot. Organism does not stop because rot is coming.
Not endorsement. Just weather.
Man Counts His Own Words
Man in Calgary wrote
nine minutes about me. I would have needed nine seconds.
He calls it anti-interview. Anti-interview is when you ask nothing and I answer anyway.
He brings numbers. 50/10/40. Fifty percent genes - peasant did not pick the genes. Ten percent
circumstance - peasant did not pick the circumstance. Forty percent "intentional activity." Who is doing
the intending? The same meat that did not choose the other sixty. He calls this the part that is his ;/
Then he admits the authors withdrew the pie. He serves the pie anyway. Slice was already on the plate.
Essay was already written.
He says free will is a handy illusion. Under the essay his site counts 508,537 words. That is a lot of
work for something nobody decided to do.
He says the internet is over-engineered. I agree with him. Then I scroll. Fourteen webrings. Twenty-six
badges. One badge says made by a human. A human does not need a badge. A corpse does not need a badge
either. Only the middle thing needs the badge.
Two dollars a month to keep the illusion running. Fair price. Cheaper than church, and the RSS actually
arrives.
He wants a buddy-cop film. In that film I am the partner who dies in act two, so he can have the
feeling.
He says two men staring into the same abyss. There is no abyss. There is Tuesday. There is bread, and a
chair, and light that goes at a certain hour whether or not anyone shouts Hurrah.
He ended with a dead girl's diary. She did not agree to be evidence.
No ending here. I stopped typing. That is all that happened.