He wakes up. He feels refreshed as if he had a good nights sleep. His phone tells him he is in Alexander City, Alabama. He is not in Alexander City, Alabama. He looks up Alexander City, Alabama on the internet. It seems to be the home of many sports professionals. It had a different name once and it was burnt to the ground and then it was rebuilt. He wonders if all theater is dead. He sees an enormous man lifting weights in the parking lot by his truck. The weights are also enormous. He gets a library card online. He is very excited about this and peruses the books he is going to download. He gets confused with the search process and cannot find anything he wants to read. He decides he will go into the library and pick out a book the old fashioned way. He counts bulbs and inventories them in drawers. He watches from a car as he drives along a dirt track road past houses that are blurred and bodies that are blurred on the road. All violence is censored and cleaned and smeared as the high frequences of his perception is attenuated his mind can’t take the horror so it masks everything so he is not sensible to the grim reality. We will never be offline. A leader of the Internet says this with glee as she blames women for the inequality that they suffer. Men cheer because it’s not their fault they are weak feeble lazy and yet still they seem to manage to shape and form the seer stone spectacles through which reality is perceived. She talks of disruption but not the broader disruption of a more equal world but the disruption that comes from technology tearing apart families and places of employment and glaring lidless eye of the mutual surveillance panopticon that everyone will have opted in to because each like and reblog and favorite and follow will be attended with a tiny haptic orgasm that can either be experienced immediately or stored up in a full length body suit to be released throughout the body after a tedious day at work in a jellied womb operating as a battery for a plutocrats steam bath. How can truth be found when everything appears to be a lie? A young married couple stand by Uluru colonizing the air with their unelected breath. Walking on the great rock is frowned upon but so is shooting the Dream walkers as if they were rats or taking their land and turning it into private property or selling their children as slaves and servants and crushing their hopes and their dreams but all of that is forgotten as everyone takes on the facial expression of the respectfully curious and the mildly bored. He hears the concept of servant-leaders and when he stops laughing he enjoys the ridiculous hippocrisy. He is tired of it all. He takes a nap. The delightful libetarian who runs Wholefoods selling the staples of the third world as luxury foods to the first world. Dreams move in and out of the edges of his vision. A giant Tiger. Saddles. White people stole jazz and made it worthless then they killed it. Is any of this true? Is that true? True. True. True. True. Tree. Tree. Tree. Three is the magic number. He walks in a small group through a barren wasteland towards the horizon on either side there are corpses and skeletons and a faded path that they keep walking along and as they live and age and stumble never reaching the glint on the horizon he thinks that perhaps they are on a globe just large enough to walk round in a lifetime and the corpses on the side are their ancestors and as he dies he imagines that future generations of his family will unknowingly walk past his skeleton and look with brief sympathy into the hollow sockets of his skull. There is no sympathy nor retreat. He eats some Cadbury eggs. He eats meat. He goes to sleep.