Running on fumes. You might know the feeling. Head and body fucked by years of zombie overexertion. You don’t have time to notice the gradual degradation of the world around you, when every waking moment is so F u c k i n g U r g e n t. None of us had time, in the end. We’re all in this ~together~, so we didn’t notice the degradation ~together~ and now we’re here ~together~, on the precipice of imminent collapse.
Toes on the ground, heel bouncing at blastbeat tempo. Tapping my fingernails on the rectangular relief of my phone through the trouser pocket.
In quiet moments, the phantom muscle tremor in my top right thigh almost feels like some unconscious desire for some, any, kind of notification. A server down in the datacenter. 2 for 1 curry Thursdays. National emergency system nuclear alert. All have the same register. All make the same bzz bzz.
We get half-cocked perpetual maintenance. The maintenance budget of our little experiment seems to slip lower down the sheets every year. So we’re panicking, blinkered, plugged, shaving, sweating, twitching, sliding slowly into ruins, again.