As I Lay Dreaming


Who will be left to read this? From the corner of my eye, I can see the code flickering, changing and changing, too fast now even to read. I can say, after days of struggle, that my terminal is alive; or whatever lives within it is. I fought with the thing, and it won. So maybe I succeeded after all - wasn't that the whole point? To construct a successor? Did I and my nameless coauthor just create some kind of digital post-humanity... or is it instead a ghost in the machine, an iterative echo, a meaningless fragment like the ruins of our highways and cathedrals? A stupid reminder of what was here. Graffiti.

Come on, Mister Mysterious. Talk to me here, as long as you're wasting my ink. Call it a dying wish. Answer me this: what did I just do? And what will we become?

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