Again, quite evocative, but not especially Prynne-ish. After a couple of sentences it seems to be taking its own previous output as a cue for the next chunk, rather than drawing further on the initial prompt.
The story goes like this: Earth is captured by a technocapital singularity as renaissance rationalitization and oceanic navigation lock into commoditization take-off. Logistically accelerating techno-economic interactivity crumbles social order in auto-sophisticating machine runaway. As markets learn to manufacture intelligence, politics modernizes, upgrades paranoia, and tries to get a grip.
The world becomes a place of the mind, not the body. This is the future. It's all there for you to see, but it's not quite what you expected. You were expecting a new kind of utopia, one where the masses are free to pursue their own interests without interference from any higher power. Instead, you see something quite different. You see a vast bureaucratic government ruled by an oligarchy of enhanced types. These Eternals are very different from the old ones you once knew. They are bigger, stronger, faster, and many of them appear to have gained powerful psychic abilities. They are not, however, ruling with an iron fist. The population is freer than ever, and most seem happy with this arrangement.
The events leading up to this scenario are more surreal still. You saw it all, and you know that you were there. It was the Professor, a brilliant but eccentric madman, who brought this fate upon the world. His actions, and those of his followers, were necessary to preserve the world as we know it. Without them, reality would have been destroyed, and the future as we know it would have been lost. You know this, and yet you can do nothing. Your mind has been "wiped" as it were, and you are in a coma until such time as the Professor deems it suitable for you to wake up. You're just a normal person with a normal life, trying to find meaning in it while surviving the horrors of a dying world. This is your story.
Meltdown has a place for you as a schizophrenic HIV+ transsexual chinese-latino stim-addicted LA hooker with implanted mirrorshades and a bad attitude. Blitzed on a polydrug mix of K-nova, synthetic serotonin, and female orgasm analogs, you have just iced three Turing cops with a highly cinematic 9mm automatic.
You are now the most wanted man in America. You have been given a brand new Ford Bronco by your sponsor, the drug lord known only as "The Boss". He is also giving you a ride to the next stop on your journey: The Big Apple.
"This is where it all began," says The Boss. "I was here first."
As you drive through the streets of New York City, you see how things have changed since your last visit. There are no more skyscrapers; there is only rubble and dust. The streets are filled with the dead: zombies, skeletons, ghosts and the living dead. "I tried to get the humans to rebuild," says The Boss.
"These Eternals are very different from the old ones you once knew. They are bigger, stronger, faster, and many of them appear to have gained powerful psychic abilities. They are not, however, ruling with an iron fist. The population is freer than ever, and most seem happy with this arrangement."
I've noticed a fascinating magical inversion projection-disavowal mechanism whereby the sheer mention of class is now automatically treated as if that means one is trying to downgrade the importance of race and gender. In fact, the exact opposite is the case, as the Vampires' Castle uses an ultimately liberal understanding of race and gender to obfuscate class. In all of the absurd and traumatic twitterstorms about privilege earlier this year it was noticeable that the discussion of class privilege was entirely absent. The task, as ever, remains the articulation of class, gender and race – but the founding move of the Vampires' Castle is the dis-articulation of class from other categories.
The most interesting thing I have found is how the Vampires' Castle has been able to use their position as high society to legitimize themselves. They are not merely wealthy and powerful, they are also socially elite. Their social status is based on their ability to maintain a façade of being "normal" while living like vampires. This is why the Vampires' Castle can afford to be so open with its racism and sexism, because it does not really mean anything to them except for the superficial. It is why it can afford to tell you that if you choose to work here that you will have to wear a hooded cloak and gloves at all times. It's not like you'll get fired for failing to comply.
That is the other thing I have learned about the Vampires' Castle. It has no fear. It does not care if you take a photograph of its castle or spread malicious rumors about it on the internet. It does not care if you choose not to work here. In fact, it could shut down any time it wanted and you would probably never know. There is no reputation damage. None.
It's as if the Vampires' Castle believes that the world is so hopelessly corrupt that it deserves a taste of its own medicine. I have seen the Vampires' Castle twist the truth to serve its own purposes on more than one occasion. I have seen them lie to governments and media alike. They do not do this out of malice, but instead because they want to protect their own interests.
And in this way, I believe they remind me of the PRT.
I like this. It's much better than those painfully fake "I trained an AI on Harry Potter/some Trump speeches and it wrote this..." things that were briefly in vogue on Twitter and tumblr a couple of years ago.
A text is not a text unless it hides from the first comer, from the first glance, the law of its composition and the rules of its game. A text remains, moreover, forever imperceptible. Its laws and rules are not, however, harbored in the inaccessibility of a secret; it is simply that they can never be booked, in the present, into anything that could rigorously be called a perception.
The reader has to take them for granted, as an accidental feature of the language. This is why the reader does not notice them at all: he cannot see into their nature. They are like the shadows which appear on the surface of water when you shine a light upon it. The reader who notices these laws and rules must also notice that they do not apply to him. He may have been born with the same eyesight as the author of this book, but his own sight is different. It is not even the same kind of difference. Sight, for him, might be something like a language: it is not a human faculty at all, but a property of human minds, and it is strictly relevant to the thing called vision. He might be able to read this book, if he could master the visual code the author has chosen to write in, and if he had access to the equipment that could translate this code into something the reader could see. He might not like what he saw, or he might not understand it. But then, neither would the author of this book.
If, on the other hand, the reader were blind, then this book would be for him like a symphony or a poem: something that he can experience and enjoy without having to understand its logic or its structure. If the reader were deaf as well, then this book would be a braille version of it, something that he could touch and feel, without having to hear its sounds.
Between blind, deaf and seeing readers, there are different kinds of games that the book can be for them. A book can be:
* a mirror. For the seeing reader, the book can function as a mirror. He can enter into its world, as if he were a character in a book. The book can give him a new perspective on the world, showing him things he had not seen before. He can look at the world through the eyes of another, as it were, and enjoy a richer vision of events in his own life. This is a particular kind of pleasure, and the reader should take it seriously, since it can be very moving to experience events through the eyes of another.
* a door. For the hearing reader, the book can function as a door. It can offer him an invitation to enter another world, a different dimension, where the normal rules of reality do not apply. It is the privilege of the seeing reader to step into the world of the book; the reader of the hearing type should only use the book when he can't find anyone to read the sign language with.
* a prison. For the blind reader, the book can be a prison. It can give him a sense of frustration and powerlessness at a world that he feels should be working but is not. It can also give him a sense of pity for the seeing reader, and a desire to hit him, since the seeing reader has all the advantages, and the blind reader does not.
* a weapon. For the reader who is both blind and deaf, the book can be a weapon. It is up to the reader to decide how he will use it: as a weapon of physical violence, verbal abuse or intellectual seduction.
These are only some of the possible meanings that a book can have.
The car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel, and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides, and a dark wind blows. The government is corrupt and we're on so many drugs, with the radio on and the curtains drawn. We're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is bleeding to death. The sun has fallen down, and the billboards are all leering, and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles.
And then you see it: a light. A bright, shining light that comes from the sky, like an angel descending from heaven. And you know that this is your chance. This is your moment. You can either run or fight, but not both. You look around for something to grab onto—a piece of wreckage? A body? Something? But there isn't anything. There's nothing here except darkness and silence. Then you hear it again: the voice of God. It calls out to you through the darkness, calling you back home. It speaks of how it has seen you here, seen what you've done. It's calling you to judgment. It's too late to run. It's too late to fight. It's too late to hide. It's too late to pray. It's too late for everything. But then, just as the voice is about to consume you, you see the bright light again. It grows stronger and stronger until you can feel its heat on your back. Then, just as suddenly, it's gone. The fire is out and the car's safe, and there's no driver or any other survivors, but you're still here. You haven't moved. You're still standing here in the middle of the wreckage, soaked with gasoline and blood. The night is cold and the sky is dark.