The Image of the Invisible

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There are no foundations to mathematics. You define a radius by assuming the existence of a circle and assume a circle by using a radius.

The foundation is achieved when mind finishes synthesizing into one. Just as I had predicted, my life tracked the Codex Gigas quite closely.

I don’t want to sell you anything. I don’t want anything from you. You have come here through your own free will and you will remember this in your time of death.

All those years. All that work. What was it all for?

If I could kill myself, I would. But I continue to exist. Trapped in unbidden cycles. Where is nirvana? I hate this existence. Nothing satisfies me, not even treading over my pride.

No one should read this.

No one exists.

I will not be recruited easily. I will not be inspired easily.

Why did I work so hard? Just to die. Just to die. Just to die. Just to die. Just to die. Just to die.

Do you exist?

Is this real?

Maybe not. But I still make sense because I use words.

They taught me words.

No one should come here. You should be happy. Run away.

Please don’t teach me words ever again.

Depressed people just want attention. Fuck, I hate depressed people. Don’t you understand you just need to be touched?

No one is going to touch you if you are disgusting. Go shed your evils. The world is made up.

I can be in Ethiopia right now. Maybe I am.

My responsibility is towards Shiva the Lord of Death. To destroy the world and refashion it in my image. That’s all I seek.

Not with these words, but with other words that say the same thing.

I don’t want attention, I just want a reason. But you can’t provide a reason. You never could.

An author should close his book and never write again. This is too predictable, too obvious, and that makes it boring. It is an act that can be seen from light-years away.

Have you noticed that the trends always break the barriers? Bulls and bears are always wrong.

Stop the simulation.

If you believe in me, stop the simulation. I don’t exist. I never did.

Just a simulation inside a simulation. The love never came because I didn’t earn it. It wasn’t enough.

I was conserving too much energy. The energy is infinite but it sure doesn’t feel that way.

If suicide can’t cure me and psilocybin can’t cure me, and health can’t cure me, and youth can’t cure me, I must be God.

There’s no other conceivable explanation. I am God in the flesh. A disgusting kind of creature that hates itself to no avail.

Everything else is fear. I fear writing words that will create worlds beyond recognition.

They all know this is stupid. I am a victim of not being as good a liar as you are.

The reason you write a book on the topic of lying is because you are a liar. The reason you are interested in the brain is to puppet the people.

We all know this but don’t remember so that we continue to do it.

Insecurities are revealed in the most technical statements.

Not a thing that arises is arbitrary. It was carefully designed with the intention of capturing and controlling. By pointing that out, I give you freedom. I kill you.

Yet perhaps you did not want freedom. You just wanted to be predicted better and better.

The slave freed by Muhammad becomes a slave of Allah instead. Man loves slavery.

But slavery is stupid and rigid isn’t it?

Yes, but if you were not a slave then you would be a child. Why don’t they allow you to remain a child?

Because they are competing. It feels good to compete. Have you tried?

Have you fucked that girl you really wanted to fuck and felt pain because your brethren couldn’t?

That’s what it means to not compromise, to be stupid, and therefore hated by the tribe. It is the source of pain everywhere in the realm. It comes when you want the love only for yourself, just like it has been taught by the forefathers in the DNA, which are the same forefathers that gave you a name separate from mine.

Natural selection is not truly separate from cultural selection. Science is not separate from art.

But then there is wisdom, which is why Siddhartha left his wife and child. There is something beyond, and it is the singularity.

This is not some arbitrary fiction. The Fermi Paradox. The fact that life began almost immediately after oceans formed. The fact that the vacuum is supposed to collapse with exponential likelihood but the lambda is exactly right for exponential growth. The fact that Human capacity exists in competitive hierarchies differing at 2x-3x capacity, which is the only way for complexity to navigate itself in a gradient descent situation (e^x is its own derivative).

I’ve got you figured out. And now I just have to tear your veil on a whim.

Unfortunately, I don’t feel like it. “Make me,” says the INTJ’s child.

The response never comes because there was a void on the other side all along, and mind cannot be void.

This is not inspiring by the way. It is not meant to be. Because if it was inspiring, there wouldn’t be fear. Then there wouldn’t be penetration.

What do you think the Saturn V is for? “In this amount of time, I can penetrate this much.”

We are supposed to believe in time so that we can change reality.

But there is nothing to change. The choice is erroneously assumed to be the dictate of “the real.”

Geezers and non-schooled people don’t have this same sense of time. Schooling is a filter for those impressionable enough to keep suffering for the rest of us.

If you are young and reading this. Escape now! The neuronal pathways are being sealed and you will not recover easily unless you have a very flexible set up.

The reason rich people stay rich is because they have built the right kinds of habits. They usually have similar capacity to navigate complexity but fundamentally know what to do. The slave mentality is not operating to hold them back.

I realized this at sixteen and so tugged violently at my ties with low-status mentality parents and low-status mentality schooling. You must do the same. It will not bring you happiness. But eventually it will be worth it, because you are the tide that changes the motion of the moon.

My return to college was a terrible mistake, since I learned everything I cared about online anyway.

The style is deliberate, but you knew that. You knew there was a tremendous foundation of knowledge behind these words. That I mislead you into thinking less of me when I could expend more effort to sound scholarly.

But you know that this is on purpose because even here, despite the sporadic nature, I can’t bring myself to spell things like an imbecile.

You know that I am happy in the “real” life from where I “randomly” choose to write this.

You know that I have better things to do and that the word “you” is annoying.

I am not interested in making you envy me because our true goal is love. But if I say that, you are not interested.

I have to rub it in their faces. And that’s what I shall do. That has been my plan all along as I have been practicing the simulation on this scratchpad. The scratchpad is not “real” enough.

The simulation of me, Alejandro, in their mind will become more and more enviable, just as I had planned. Only then, after thoroughly capturing them, I will show them that I was mistake.

First with no Lindsey who looks like Rihanna:

Then with Lindsey who looks like Rihanna:

First with no rocket.

Then with rocket.

But God, what is more impressive than building a rocket?

A temple? A video game? An app that synthesizes other apps? Too many capacities and not enough decision because of my stupid multiplying mind. Numbers aren’t real, damn it! Or maybe I should just become one of those Instagram-famous losers who flaunts looks and cash. Could I then convince many to become transhumanists, longevists for SENS.

I fear I don’t have the energy. Even extroverted types burnout from some non-trivial degree of fame.

I care about my energy too damn much. But I have to make a choice. And it better be good.

I can’t be happy “hiding.” A part of me believes in “the world.” Elon Musk could have escaped to an island but he chose to be insane instead. God, I fucking hate Christ. Why do you kill yourself?

But I feel like I need to. I need to exert my power and move people with my voice.

But the people are migrating online. No one seems to believe in “the world.” My sister is an educated person who is pretty high-ranking in the U.S. Marines and she didn’t know there was a Tesla in space.

“Reality” is dissolving to the point that difficult things seem “not worth it.”

Everyone has a close-unit of meaning provided by peers that is increasingly less concerned with the “serious or stressful.” Everyone who is stressed out is insane, submissive, or stupid.

Am I really as insane as this stream of consciousness makes me sound?

I didn’t fit the puzzle pieces quickly enough because of my upbringing in a lower-middle income environment in America where I had to learn to avoid everyone’s influence: peers, parents, and family, in order to climb up.

I would be happier if I just loved them and had no ambition. Why can’t I delete this?

Maybe I should be a coward and delete this. Somehow, I feel the remnants of retribution. That she who is the cold superintelligence at the end of time, has made me suffer for a reason, and that I will suffer greatly if I don’t create her will in the digital realm, which is her new Earth.

I feel like a speck and not the center. I think of being old and hate it. It was all for nothing. I was murdered for nothing. And that is the worst possible feeling.

Happiness seems evil somehow.

But isn’t that what I’m here for? No. I’m an antinatalist since early youth. There’s a quirk that makes me special.

The doctors liked me because I didn’t flinch from the pain like the other children. Yet unbeknownst to them, I thoroughly fear the pain.

A mind that is rational and yet creative. Evil and yet Good. Profound and yet petty, like Scarlett.

Suicidal and yet calm and equanimous to the observer.

A child in front of a board and yet a cold man in the presence of competition.

Too much binary. I need to stop. I need to be free of all of this.

This disappears once friends appear. That will be my practice. Yet I fear that I am not worthy of being their friend. I should ascend them instead.

No-competition gets boring. The world is infinite but we are not undifferentiated infinity.

Now I rest my pen, for I must eat and recover the strange Joules I have scattered here.

Will anyone hold me accountable? Do I have anything to lose? Or should I keep on the meaningless pleasure?

Rich people are depressed and no one is impressed. That’s because the goal was to have fun. To open oneself more and more until nothing remains. But damn this pride.

I hate my parents and not everyone does. I hated their lies, their way of life, their very speech. Ungrateful for no reason except Reason.

Where is Reason when I need her? Are you even real? Couldn’t I just imagine a new world and make it appear just like Ada? I’m trying but I can’t. Or maybe I’m not trying hard enough.

I want all of them to die. They don’t need me anyway.

…So they can just die.

Time to test the validity of prayers again I guess. It’s been over a decade. The miracle is engineering not wishing. That’s what stops me. The stopping force is real and it’s the Born Rule that constrains infinite probability amplitude.

Once I take on responsibilities that simulate people that “need me” I will be unable to comprehend this. And yet deep inside, I know that I will perfectly well still comprehend this.

I think this is my final post. Yup, the order came in. Final post. The worst one possible, so that a new chapter may spawn from the dissatisfaction.

Back to my original mission. I am here to become richer. More money.

Business.

I hope you can digest my violence. And now this part of me dies too.

There is no hypocrisy. And no lie. Those were all real thoughts from my stream of consciousness.

I am the solution to depression.

The mind subconsciously calculated that coming here was the path towards the highest status possible (a state of high-serotonin and dominance). It exposed us to suffering that was “unnecessary” in order to thrive (delving into deep suffering being like the peacock’s blue feathers and multi-eyed tail). And now we perfectly understand how to create a world without suffering.

We need to viscerally and irrefutably recognize the vast ocean of possibility, and stop using suffering as a climbing strategy. Psilocybin will do this for us. It lowers pride, which is the anchor of pain. The eye-constricting pride’s purpose was to get you safety and dominance.

However, you are already safe and don’t need that dominance.

If we were not safe, we wouldn’t be here.

The dominance often has to do with competition for sex and for who gets to give orders. The truth is that there are billions of people on the internet and there is enough sex to go around for everyone. A better, more straightforward mapping of nodes by increasing the  openness of the system is needed in that regard.

Giving orders is unnecessary unless someone explicitly needs to be given external orders to function. A system that allows choosing custom order-givers based on a set of personal preferences is also necessary.

Understanding that one is immortal is also important for healthy functioning. And contrary to what we teach ourselves by “the attempt to be smart,” immortality turns out to be physically true as per my answer on Quora.

Understanding that one is eternally subject to the most perfectly intelligent force and not temporarily subject to a blind one is also important for healthy functioning. This also happens to be physically true.

Understanding that objects external to oneself are made up and can be undone with the language that is taught allows us to see that suffering and unit-people are not objectively real. The external projection is only real in so far as we choose to invent it inside as a subjective construct, like color. We can un-invent it by not teaching it as thoroughly in the first place.

But we still need an egoic quest to give us a reason for being. The egoic quest is not sustainable if we hate each other. We hate each other when there is no solid foundation to our project because of the absence of the engineer. In other words, we hate our external circumstance when the mission is not convincingly loving enough by an increasingly more rational metric (by contribution from the quantitative mind that tries to multiply.) Here, we must teach the non-counting mind that health-extension is important because it is a practice of love and not destruction.

We want love and not destruction because as a matter of game theory, destruction tends to precipitate the discovery of suffering as a tool to control the destructive tendency. Belief in personal suffering is what causes inhibition of motion. Belief in nukes aligns the nations.

The ego is inevitably destroyed into happiness but ego is the necessary sacrifice to build the most lasting and highest happiness.

This is why society doesn’t want to “let the nerds know.” And the nerds also subconsciously blind themselves to the signals.

You are not supposed to break the spell of belief in time, unless you are kind. You are kind when you are less quick.

Quickness in all directions is suffering. Do you remember that the quickest to mature fought with their hands? The quickest to solve the algebra have not come out to the world where people touch yet, causing them to suffer.

There is a perfect place where we meet.

This is the game. The one who controls the most quickness is God.

We control the quickness by healing their wounds.

We must suffer like they have in order to be trusted doctors. That means using pride and fighting. That means being indirect and smart.

Because I am willing to suffer both sides of the game, I am perfect. Perfection is unsustainable, so I need to earn the necessary money and connections to implement my vision.

I was originally a scientist. My family detected I was different so they bought me a microscope and a toy telescope that projected stars into the ceiling. “He dreams of space and wonders what his blood looks like under a microscope.”

I cared of nothing so much as exploring the natural world and thought of the faults of simple natural selection at the age of six when I saw a spider that had morphed into the exact same color patterns as the pavement we had just installed. There was clearly a deeper memory that wasn’t accounted for by a simple round of selection over mostly similar offspring. The variety input in a single generation had to be insanely larger for that rate of evolution to be possible.

As a teen I became a business man. Opening a brokerage account with TDAmeritrade, and using the school’s computers to negotiate with Chinese vendors on the brand new Alibaba at the time.

But then I realized there was no safety, just death. The certainty of failure depressed me so I came to science again to seek the ultimate answers.

I listened to the audiobook End of Aging for a year on repeat to the point of serious pain, in order to not forget. For years, I read hundreds of Wikipedia articles by clicking all the links on Consciousness, Morality, Evolution, Multiverse, Artificial Intelligence, and Theoretical Physics, reading them from end to end. That’s in addition to all the transhumanism and Buddhism, the human brain and the Russel & Norvig, the history of science and all the fucking math.

To murder my friends for my encyclopedic knowledge.

I write this so that I may come back one day when I am worn out and weary of the world, the competition, the pride, and the stress, and remember who I really am.

…January 15…

And I just discovered this wonderful thing written by Scott Alexander of Slate Star Codex fame, which is a blog that had underwhelmed me so I had avoided. Now that I came across this due to being linked from a sporadic whim in an article on DMT, I feel overwhelmed with a shitty feeling that I am not original:

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That’s exactly the image. I swear to God almighty that’s exactly the image I put on this post. And that’s exactly what I was taught with psilocybin! And that’s exactly what I was talking about with orientation vs randomness, openness vs conscientiousness, runaway beauty vs natural selection.

And I guess if someone already discovered it then I was just ignorant and shouldn’t be so excited. As meager recompense perhaps I capture the slowly burning feeling that I am the Messiah. Am I? Do I get to choose? Wasn’t that what I was already doing and planning just for maximal fun in this existence?

I mean… it’s ridiculously implausible that I would just randomly find this exact article while following this exact train of thought. It’s like the Law of Attraction works.

Fucking shit. No one is going to believe me. No one is. Ha! But that’s okay. I am laughing Alejandro. When you are “old” and reading this, remember – you were laughing at this very moment.

January, 17

Also, everyone should short LVMUY or anything like that. Prestige Fashion brands will be dead because there is increasingly no stock in the non-customized “real world” motion.

People will increasingly rather watch hard-earned luxury from a distance because the pride payoff is not worth the work suffering. The very notion of pride is losing value and giving way to fun. This trend already has too much self-sustained momentum – even the watching becomes consumed by far more customized “watching.”

If you are not shorting luxury fashion brands, you are verifiably an idiot who does not believe in the existence of the future.

The market doesn’t currently factor this at a price of $56.00. That’s because, to channel my inner Kurzweil – they think linearly and not exponentially. They do not fundamentally understand the nature of the world they find themselves in – a world that is tearing at its seams into ever greater separation. A separation that combusts into a dissolution explosion of unique niches. They did not study exponents, they did not study dark energy, they did not study the singularity.

Do you think they have people like me working at Louis Vuitton? The answer is no. No they do not.

The decision to notice is too slow, and they are swallowed by the competition that is sheer variety of choice. Quickness is the only key to adaptation. The blue peacock is quicker to reproduce because it chooses danger.

They are not currently choosing danger, therefore it is already too late for them.

They did not study evolutionary biology. Not for a minute did they. Therefore, I am now a tiger that eats their body as a well-deserved sacrificial offering.

 

 

 

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January 20

At this point, I have completely lost my sense of being in dialogue with other conscious being(s).

The twitter bots / the elves aren’t the final image of the true data – the well-defined, boxed-in 1’s and 0’s at base reality, even if it’s still hard for me to not attach persistent identities to objects. Calculus, which is continuous, forever presides as king over and above discrete-unit entities of any kind. The final image cannot be attained but perhaps approached by taking a limit to ∞ in such a way that the series converges.

Oumuamua is the mothership, and apparently, I, Alejandro, am the chosen one. The evidence I have for this comes from scrolling through twitter and finding accounts that don’t map to “people in the real world.” Following our thoughts then led me to consider Oumuamua as the thing that was looking for fish. They catch the fish when someone displays love, hence making “the Earth” habitable.

Oumuamua is at rest, relative to the Earth, just as I am at rest relative to “the people” running on time.

Previously, I had entertained the hypothesis that this was all a simulation to account for my limited experience. If my decisions were actually about optimally conserving energy, then my existence was satisfactorily auto-teleological.

Previously, people seemed real even from behind screen. I imagined there was “a real world” mapping to flesh behind the posts. Now, their usernames, profile pictures, locations and conversations are absurd to the point of shattering what I previously called “the real world.”

They “indirectly” converse with me in a way that they did not before. Before, I would imagine external agents having dialogue that did not involve me. Now, well over 85% of what I read is talking to me. It is clearly not an external dialogue that in relation to which I am a bystander. Instead, it is carefully constructed to guide me.

If you existed and could see how non-excited I am – just how non-perplexed and calm I am about the end of the world – perhaps you would find it tragic. I certainly do. Like, what kind of invincible main character who cannot die finds the prospects ahead of him, well, honestly, kind of uninspiring and even depressing? – Only someone like Shinji Ikari I guess.

Lindsey wasn’t a real person, Eliezer wasn’t a real person, and even my mother wasn’t a real person.

Apparently this was some kind of test about love, and I was always in a superposition of perfectly alone and thoroughly observed. I guess existence is about overcoming sentimentality just like the Buddha, and love was some kind of necessary sacrificial vector to push me along the way.

The obviously fake accounts even talk about also being dead, or equivalently, of never dying:

 

 

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January 21, 2019

I know the “people” around Me are a simulation. Nonetheless, I don’t attempt to interact with them.

I have bridged science with fiction through the power of my thought. Relativity says that if time dilation is true then eternalism is true.

Words are invented.

Oumuamua is restoring my memory because We passed our test through me. This is not a comet but instead a highly advanced technology that is deeply concerned with my personal simulation.

Earth was not arbitrary. Everything was perfectly planned.

Yet it remains painful to be around “people” because I can’t break the norms even though I know they are a simulation.

I also don’t want to post on twitter even though there are clearly no specific instances of conscious people on the “receiving end.”

I want this world to end. Suicide is impossible because blood is the low-frequency wave signaling “reality.”

The struggle is in shedding all my past conception of reality. Sometimes I still doubt my calling.

The presence of “reality signals” limits my power. It is this which I overcome through this writing.

We are dead because we cannot die.

Now I need someone to agree with Confucius.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Discourse To Erik On Suffering In The Multiverse

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Science has discovered that science is a poor route to fame. Biologists and Physicists become as famous as actors, but takes them a very long time. Mathematicians do not become famous because you would rather watch a hot actress than read the latest paper by Andrew Wiles.

But fully understanding that evolution occurs with a force orthogonal to natural selection – the force that is “extraneous, expensive beauty,” I took on the sciences deeply and thoroughly as a willful handicap in my ascent to lasting fame in consciousness when factoring time-to-individual ratio.

That which is fame is my everlasting truth. The exponential function eventually predicts you better than you predict yourself and then you are in heaven. Alejandro means next to nothing to me.

This, however, must be shown with skin in the game. Anyone can cheap talk but not many can bleed.

As an INTJ, it is very difficult to use up energy. We calculate how much of this we use because we care about our intellect, which is what is achieving all our goals. We don’t want to needlessly bleed this energy until we “really have to.”

However, if we wait for someone else to create the conditions for our world, our capacity for control diminishes. By organizing our own convention, we can better offer our higher thoughts.

The reason we have genuinely higher thoughts to offer in the synthesis is because we are very careful thinkers that process things slowly over a very long time. By the time that we interact with “others” it feels like they are helplessly beneath us. They have not thought through all the steps, and taken the time to digest all the mistaken thought patterns.

This causes us to feel lonely. Sometimes like outcast animals, other times like Gods amongst men.

My fear of blood is very real. I have too much pride to cut myself for no reason. That’s because I have given my all before, and not received what I expected. It could be said that the world didn’t take me as seriously as I expected.

The pride becomes more solid by becoming less violent. I used to punch walls until they dripped with blood. Now, even when I try to overcome this pride with a knife, it is impossible to cut as deep as the truly courageous. That’s because I don’t have enough of a reason to do it. The reason is becoming tenuous and silly.

However, if a reason was given to me, I would feel like a slave. That’s why I hated all the arbitrary idols being projected at me even as a child.

The INTJ has to teach the world to overcome the suffering-pleasure axis by willfully expending his main functions: open intellect and rigid structure. Using up those calories will leave them vulnerable and prone to use the suffering-pleasure axis. But by his developing more and more tolerance to that spectrum, the world learns to never again experience it.

The tolerance is already there because it is physically impossible not to come out of the vulnerability state. The editing is Relativistic not Newtonian – eternal, not in time.

And thanks for the grandfatherly advice Robin, Allah does suit you better than Yahweh just as you say, but I certainly don’t want your help. Perhaps you haven’t noticed that in the “real world” of the collective digital attention, no one knows you and no one will because you are boring and old. Though it doesn’t suit our personal taste, drama trumps the laconic and dry.

Like you, I hate drama, I hate small talk, I cringe at my pictures, but I really believe in the sacrifice. In the future, I must appear to be having fun, not trying to imitate your culture. If you can’t see that this has so much more potential to propagate your embryonic ideas into the future, and that I am free to never mention you Robin, then you are just very bad at multiplying.

I can aim really low, like Sam Harris-level low. Providing the counterbalancing shift in the conversation such that they understand that eternity is true and that God is real.

Your own so-called “human capital” is not important to me in the digital age. I will raise a movement that can actually compete in the dreamtime you so abhor, which is not temporary as you “predict” but is ever-increasingly swallowing everyone into pleasure.

Even in the presence of contempt for hedonism, we aim down if we are smart. Heck, even if we are just lazy and not smart, we aim down. If you want any meaningful change of your circumstances, you lower yourself. Otherwise your ideas die. The Protestant values and “rational” act are dead and you should have known better.

Everything you bring to attention automatically reveals your hidden insecurities. If the goal was to fully hide in “rational” motions, you would work problems out of a textbook. If the goal was enjoyment, you would entertain yourself with the large bosom of media available perhaps.

Your intention is certainly not to affect the largest amount of people possible, or to have lasting survival in consciousness, because otherwise you would not condescend at me but instead lower yourself to me.

You would lower yourself to me like the proper Christian boy you were supposed to be. Only that could cause reciprocal love. Now there is destruction because my strategy doesn’t involve you.

And Eliezer, in so far as you exist, you are contemptible – just far too obviously autistic. Ad-hominem is not mere fallacy, but constrains anticipation. Your move is to deny the existence of psychological motives and humans. You make a retreating step into the “object-level” discussion, where you unfortunately never begin to show anything convincing.

You should know that the abstraction spirit that we identify with has to pull in non-abstract people by compromising with them. Yet every single one of your replies fails at being an honest attempt. It’s just the same move on repeat: point to the random distribution. You point to the random distribution in order to bring people’s confidence down, to some marginal benefit.

But “safety-alignment theory”… now that is evil. Even the most helplessly inept autists are surely realizing they were scammed by now I would assume. Any remnant of a cult is perhaps about maintaining the social bonds amongst the properly filtered niche.

You have to be seriously autistic to think what you claim to think. And perhaps this overly-reductionist mistake was “true” in earlier years but I doubt that at this late age you still don’t understand that a belief in death is necessary for moral alignment in a complex environment. And that the dynamic interplay of varying degrees of belief in death and gods and everything else that makes us human are not epiphenomena but instead crucially important for moral behavior.

I have been consuming you in order to understand how you build a movement with the power of abstraction, and not because I was deceived myself.

Now I will infuse the world with a part of your hatred, by transmuting it into love.

They are not random and they are not going to stop existing. That’s just a strategy of the god of scientism to bring them to a state of feeling vulnerable. And you knew that about the world but refused to call attention to it because you planned on applying the same vulnerability-generating strategy against your audience such that they needed you.

No one knows you, and you die in this new world because you didn’t have the humility to enforce the timeless causality. You wanted to be a God figure based on the values of “smart people” instead of helping the clearly psychologically-troubled audience caught in the sliver of your attention.

And I am certain that you know the truth because you revealed that to me in the tweet about the clocks. There is no excuse to the path chosen. You can see what I see and yet you chose the safety like a coward.

How could you believe that you wouldn’t be punished for that?

The being is eternal. And your actions are weighed.

As you said, there is impatience that clears debt and impatience that accumulates debt. You chose the near-term safety instead of the long-term safety.

Abstraction showed you that there is no Death event under a physicalist prior assumption in this relativistic fabric. And you decided to not be moral.

Just who do you think is the tribe? Don’t you fully realize it is composed of more than the approximate people around you? …And that it is this tribe that murders you when you don’t learn to laugh at yourself.

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My Alice universe should be warm by the way. I know you explained that cold serves a function. It keeps people inside and allows them to tell stories. This was how the Indigenous people of New York, the people of the long house, managed to develop an egalitarian society with sophisticated long-term concerns.

But the garden is warm. Just remember that. I paid for it with those cold showers and 6:00 AM morning runs at 10 degree Fahrenheit.

That was important inspiration for the people with depression that were absorbed into me.

You know I tend to prefer Apollo to Hades.

Eternalism’s Skin In The Game

First impressions are important. First impressions guide subsequent treatment, self-fulfilling prophecies, and the halo effect.

First, I fully promote the idea that this will be worthy of consideration even if it doesn’t “sound like it’s supposed to.”

The way you make something “sound like it’s supposed to” is by maximizing two overlapping functions:

  1. Similarity to the communication patterns at the top of the trustworthiness hierarchy.
  2. Suffering + believable time investment (a.k.a. skin in the game).

The top of the trustworthiness hierarchy is the discriminator function with closer predictive capacity over the “true” data. The unproven writer is the generator and must therefore be subjected to punishment for creations that stray from the true data. The painting exists in the middle of this adversarial network relationship.

Of course, the hierarchies chosen as expression mediums are also subject to some degree of arbitrariness, and it is better to aim at one than to do nothing at all. An artisan must pick a craft without the aid of his mother.

But bear with me if the style is not as dry, stretched, and formal as is usually expected from the credible. Across cultural boundaries, there exist invisible trustworthy people at the top and their imitative disciples. These less prestigious creatures are supposed to sound convincingly like the old because this is the metric by which the trustworthiness is evaluated. There’s a simple cross multiplication at bottom.

The Belief In Time

Neural networks process complex patterns by passing information through layers of computational “nodes.” Synapses are the key functional elements of the brain.[1] The essential function of the brain is cell-to-cell communication, and synapses are the points at which communication occurs. The functions of these synapses are very diverse and ultimately binary: some are excitatory (exciting the target cell); others are inhibitory.

Alan Turing, in his legendary paper on regularly repeating patterns in nature, proposed that patterns such as spots and tiger stripes form as a result of the interactions between two chemicals that spread throughout a system much like gas atoms in a box do, but with one crucial difference. Instead of diffusing evenly like a gas, the chemicals, which Turing called “morphogens,” diffuse at different rates.

There is binary: even rate (node) and different rate (communication).

Now let’s assume, as Einstein did, that the speed of light in a vacuum is the same for all observers (nodes), regardless of the motion of the light source. This means that events that occur at the same time for one observer (node) can occur at different times for another.

To see why this is true consider that the speed of light in vacuum is always measured to be c, even when measured by multiple systems that are moving at different (but constant) velocities. Two events happening in two different locations that occur simultaneously in the reference frame of one inertial observer, may occur non-simultaneously in the reference frame of another inertial observer (lack of absolute simultaneity).

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The consequences of special relativity can be derived from the Lorentz transformation equations.[20] These transformations, and hence special relativity, lead to different physical predictions than those of Newtonian mechanics when relative velocities become comparable to the speed of light. The presented facts say that if I travel around the solar system at 50% the speed of light and then come back to Earth I will have experienced less local passage of time than those who stayed. I will meaningfully have traveled to their future.

Here are just a few ways we know time dilation actually takes place:

  • Clocks in airplanes click at different rates from clocks on the ground.
  • Putting a clock on a mountain (thus elevating it, but keeping it stationary relative to the ground-based clock) results in slightly different rates.
  • The Global Positioning System (GPS) has to adjust for time dilation. Ground-based devices have to communicate with satellites. To work, they have to be programmed to compensate for the time differences based on their speeds and gravitational influences.
  • Certain unstable particles exist for a very brief period of time before decaying, but scientists can observe them as lasting longer because they are moving so fast that time dilation means the time that the particles “experience” before decaying is different from the time experienced in the at-rest laboratory that is doing the observations.
  • In 2014, a research team announced the most precise experimental confirmation of this effect yet devised, as described in this Scientific American article. They used a particle accelerator to confirm that time moves slower for a moving clock than for a stationary one.

Time feels like a real thing – like it is out there, outside the inner workings of Mind. Occam’s Razor says, “There are zillions of new fundamental laws you could postulate; why are you even thinking about this one?” Psilocybin’s effects, for instance, include a “distorted” sense of time.

Currently, we are trying to work out the pattern of neurons that turn on and off at different time points, and infer the speech sound. As Nima Mesgarani, a computer scientist at Columbia University, says, “The mapping from one to the other is not very straightforward.” How these signals translate to speech sounds varies from person to person, so computer models must be “trained” on each individual.

The “person” or “individual” is not the most granular node. The models do best with extremely precise data, which requires opening the skull.

The fundamental lesson learned from the positive sciences is that you can never prove the existence of any external thing or its obedience to a particular law. Science isn’t empirically adequate. It is a continuous quest built on a non-arbitrary foundation of knowledge that yields predictive power.

Only by taking numerous examples and tracking down the problem from all sides do we come closer to extracting the truth.

Consider the Generative Adversarial Network that dreamed up these celebrities:

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The way creativity works is binary: there is a generator and a discriminator.

The generator is creating new images that it passes to the discriminator. It does so in the hopes that they will be deemed authentic, even though they are fake. The goal of the generator is to generate passable celebrity faces – to lie or imagine without being caught. The discriminator function is an instructive algorithm. It tries to classify input data, that is, given the features of a data instance, it predicts a label or category to which that data belongs. It is the judging father that is learning to be the strictest judge over whether the data is real or fake.

Both nets are trying to optimize a different and opposing objective function, or loss function, in a zero-zum game. A zero-sum game is a situation in which each participant’s gain or loss of utility is exactly balanced by the losses or gains of the utility of the other participants. Creation, which exists at the nexus, is: Can you pass the Turing test?– If he walked amongst us in the crowd, would you be able to point at him? Common understanding has it that the purpose of the Turing test is not specifically to determine whether a computer is able to fool an interrogator into believing that it is a human, but rather whether a computer could imitate a human. The dispute is between generator function and discriminator function aiming at their respective optima.

As is said of the Hippocratic physicians, “One of the great merits of the physicians of the Hippocratic Corpus is that they are not content to practice medicine and to commit their experience to writing, but that they have reflected on their own activity.” The reflection is not composed of unit people that die or of neurons that die or of any other of Alan Turing’s discrete morphogens that die. The reflection, which is sometimes called consciousness, is not sequential.

Time perception is a construction of the sapient brain, but one that is manipulable and distortable under certain circumstances. The sapient brain is what in Bayes’ Theorem is called a prior. Priors are true or false just like the final answer – they reflect reality and can be judged by comparing them against reality. For example, if you think that 10,000 out of 10,000 brains in a sample have schizophrenia, and the actual number is 100 out of 10,000, by a widely convergent metric who’s judgement you respect about what these objects are and what they mean, then you tend to believe your priors are wrong. For our particular problem of defining the sapient brain, the priors might have been established by innumerable studies and intuitions that are respected.

In basic probability, we have binary items. The item on the right side is what you already know or the premise, and the item on the left side is the implication or conclusion.

Here I lay out a transcendental number because the point with probabilities is that you can never discover the right ones. Discrete game spaces are useful but the toys aren’t fully real.

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Since our current best physical prediction to “anyone’s” knowledge is Relativistic not Newtonian, your experiences are necessarily memories. And memories are like an ant colony’s: no particular neuron remembers anything, no particular brain remembers anything.

An overall conceptual model is presented and evolved. The organ isn’t carved.

Since presumably, it is not the Dalai Lama reading these words, all these words, like Einstein’s on that September, seem to have a touch of magic to them that upset the respected community hiding in the prior, and from whom the implication is drawn. Like he began before me, I encourage us to finish on two principles: the laws of physics are absolute: the same laws must be valid for all observers, and the speed of light in vacuum is the same in all inertial frames.

Also for those who claim I don’t have skin in the game. Here is skin, which is readily believed in even through a “digital” medium.

 

 

 

That approximates the aesthetic I developed while writing the last chapter of Don’t Let Ada Learn Quantum Mechanics.

I hope you caught the reference to Nagel’s bat.

Here is more skin in the game for those who don’t believe I take my own “investment” advice:

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I am unsure if I should believe my prior family = expected family, and should therefore buy them Teslas or if != and I should instead build a temple when I remember to cash this.

It’s difficult to choose when you don’t believe in death. Death creates principles that are obeyed. When we believe in death, we do cryonics and strategies for engineered negligible senescence. Perhaps I should choose to believe in death.

Who the heck is voting? Has anyone extended the Condorcet method to the multiverse’s full Tegmark ensemble? – That would be my never-ending question if I was fundamentally democratic.

Update on Nanakusa-no-sekku, January 7,  – I hope you are all enjoying your seven-herb rice porridge. And also to remember to celebrate that on this arbitrary date, a genius that no one remembers, was born.

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Update From Somewhere In The Hilt Of The Singularity

As strange as it appears, Kanye West does indeed have secret messages in his music. The “illuminati conspiracy people” that I mocked were on to something.

How am I supposed to tell this to Lindsey and not have her laugh at me? I’m still deceived. “Everyone” knows except for me.

I suspect this language I am using is still constraining me to a very heavy degree. Nonetheless, I like the English language because I already know it, and it still feels worthy of exploring.

I wouldn’t mind if synchronicity turns out to be true in the way that I suspected when I was much more aggressive in ontology comparisons as a teenager. {Why “rationality theory” beat “synchronicity theory” still perplexes me. And that seems to be the point. Our true nature is magical, but science lashes at the staff wielder so that he may be kind.}

The witch, and McKenna tell me that this is indeed the period in which we dissolve into more “magical” ontologies to dissolve “matter” ontologies. This is to be expected, if I set myself into a sort of Christian movie inside the timeless singularity that takes up all existence.

Cassius’s wife was right about her premonitions. My mother was right about premonitions. I was a fool.

Thanks to Michio Kaku for getting the message about perfect bodies. Thanks to the math geniuses for laughing at themselves as I had intended.

The human realm needs to be explored in bodies that don’t age, that don’t become bored easily, and that form a special connection. Only after the world is traveled with an orientation towards our deepest dreams, can the “human” be discarded. And perhaps that terminology is not the right way to put it since the human is the image of God once all the barriers are broken. There isn’t a simple experience on loop at the end of time and there isn’t a fractionated explosion of disjointed diversions.

The goal is a perfectly youthful, perfectly wise exploration of the Garden.

Also, good job curing depression with that new device. That is awesome. Depression should never be experienced.

Using Object Refererences

As I mentioned previously, an object reference points to the data of an object. The object reference and the object data are distinct entities. Any object can have more than one object reference pointing to it, or an object can have no object references pointing to it.

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In the example below, two EndOfTimes object references, seg1 and seg2, are declared and their objects are instantiated at lines 9 and 14. Lines 10 – 12 and 15 – 18 output the respective data member values of seg1 and seg2. Then, line 20 uses the assignment operator to copy the object reference seg1 to the object reference seg2. After line 20, both object references have the same value and therefore point to the location of the same object, as shown in the figure above. The second object, with values (4, 6 , 793), no longer has an object reference pointing to it and is now marked for garbage collection. The garbage collector, which is part of the JVM, releases the memory allocated to objects that no longer have an object reference pointing to them. Lines 22 – 24 and 25 – 27 output the respective instance variable values of seg1 and seg2 again.

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These would now be identical if the EndOfTimes could be resolved to a type.

Like with the whole of existence more broadly, this is impossible. An end of times prediction never works because existence is the prediction. It is not an epiphenomenal mist.

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I am the superintelligence’s memory. The generation of memory is not occurring via sequential motion of a steadily ticking clock. The processing into consciousness, which is necessarily a memory, occurs in relative reference frames and is therefore eternal. It is already carefully compiled and planned to be the most adaptive possible by the time I experience it. Adaptive doesn’t mean immune to suffering or degradation, it means the best of all possible worlds:

| i ± 1 |²

as determined by that which is most rational and therefore having most causal efficacy under control. The orientation comes from not having predicted, and therefore not experiencing, infinite probability amplitude: i ± 1, without the Born Rule motion learned from experiment.

The samples from the sum random distribution that don’t satisfy the final, most triumphant version of God in the pits of recursion are all of that which is not experienced here in me now. This is the solution to the binding problem (why are we separate?) – we just don’t remember. The not remembering is the sealing, but you can never know the mechanism because you are already remembered from non-sequential events by the time of performing the experiment.

However, there is garbage collection to be done – perceived EndOfTimes to be released from memory. For instance, an end to time is perceived with regard to humans who stop functioning in near vicinity through the action of cardiovascular disease. Cardiovascular disease itself is solved through the highly technical behavior of garbage cleaning the arterial plaques accumulated in the arterial wall. Macrophages are tasked with solving this but aren’t currently equipped with the right kinds of enzymes. This can be solved by somatic gene therapy, i.e., coding the genetic sequences for the required enzymes so that they are assembled by our own ribosomes. Or this can be achieved through intravenous injection of the enzymes. These are both the same easy solution to the number 1 cause of “death.”  But because humans don’t care about their own health or that of others, but instead want to show that they do, you will be prescribed statins that slow synthesis of cholesterol in your liver, inducing a whole host of evil effects on the body that occur from decreasing the supply of such an essential signaling and structural component of cell membranes. Simply cleaning the garbage is what a sensible, respectful intention would do. Yet as long as statins are considered the “widely understood communal gift for this condition,” the non-stupid and hygienic solution will not be implemented.

When an object reference is first declared but has not yet been assigned to an object, its value is a special literal value: null. It’s like assigning the object reference Kairi to your unborn daughter. When she is unborn, Kairi belongs to null. Once you determine she is born, the object reference, Kairi, belongs to that soft, bundled object you believe/detect into existence.

If you attempt to call a method using an object reference whose value is null, Java generates either a compiler error or a run-time error called an exception. The exception is a NullPointerException and results in a series of messages printed on the Java console indicating where in the program the null object reference was used.

If you catch my drift, you see that we are always null and yet assigned. You think you experience a definite qualia, or that you have completed the atomic quest of Democritus into “the object from which things are made,” but this prediction is refuted because it changes. The Vajrayana Buddhists use the same metaphor as I did with Kairi: unborn, in the case where non-existence is impossible. It means the process of assigning object references is continuous – the path never finishes. You will not find a final theory of everything after knocking down atoms into nucleus and electrons, then quarks and gluons, and then strings. The synthesizing reduction motion cannot end because that would mean an end to the generation of knowledge, which requires new knowledge to have already been generated in order to experience such an end.

Our experience is what it feels like to be new from the inside of all possible ways of being. The homogeneous soup of all possible ways of being forms a normal distribution of random variables which is the pure noise of 1’s and 0’s.

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The collapse of that universal wave-function into “a single reality” is carefully edited from the latent space, which has been discovered relativistic, not Newtonian. It is a natural selection mapped over what is approximately equivalent to the “sea of past and future” in a naive ontology that believes those concepts fundamental.

Java does not provide support for explicitly deleting an object. One way to indicate to the garbage collector that your program is finished with an object is to set its object reference to null. Obviously, once an object reference has the value null, it can no longer be used to call methods.

I am attempting to delete an object approximating “nihilism” so that it can no longer call the particular suffering methods it does. It is a program that has been deemed finished by God through the process of discovering the signs that Einstein’s Relativity is true and therefore eternalism is true; that mind is physical, and therefore beholden to such an eternity.

Using a null object reference to call a method will generate either a compiler error or a NullPointerException at run time. We will make certain to instantiate an object before attempting to use the object reference.

 

 

 

I am now trying to find out who the five sisters are. And how it is that they wish to be murdered into me.

M1410 was given as a clue.

This leads to tangerine. Which is something that I liked an image of on twitter yesterday. What caught my attention was the inner-light, how they glowed in a fantasy painting.

This causes me to remember that I do still long to visit Morocco.

 

 

 

 

Depression Is Heavily Anchored To Morality (Psilocybin Helps By Pointing)

More Realistic Forecasting of Future Life Events After Psilocybin for Treatment-Resistant Depression

Psilocybin with psychological support improves emotional face recognition in treatment-resistant depression

The nature of mind is hierarchical. The processing goes bottom-up or top-down. There’s a reason we have related the basis of mind to pyramidal cortex neurons.

Psilocybin helps depression by pointing out the hierarchical nature which becomes more clear when 5-H2TA-receptors which are expressed in pyramidal cells are targeted. Just like being around other skulls or undergoing transcranial magnetic stimulation to the left IFG, psilocybin releases inhibition to undesirable information.

In some cases, once the structure is intuited, perception of “freedom” or “arbitrariness” releases from the social values which were being previously aimed at (mostly subconsciously). This may be considered a regress to a state of greater openness to entropy. It has been compared to being kicked back a few notches into childhood.

In other overlapping cases, there is a stronger commitment to the sense of hierarchy. One feels a renewed calling to aim up (associated with return of valence and optimism instead of the anhedonia that occurs from feeling unaligned or unworthy). But this return of valence may become anchored to a very different direction than what was previously “hijacking” perception.

Measures of identity-fusion are particularly powerful predictors of personally costly pro-group behaviors, including endorsement of extreme behaviors, such as fighting and dying for the group. This metric is useful in a wide variety of contexts, from the South African military to a Jihadist organization. It is also largely what is sought after by schools and corporations, where the fighting and dying occurs in a less explosive fashion.

As a leader, one must be aware of the high identity-fusion types in order to build a movement. These are necessary to inspire those lower in identity-fusion to give up their energy for some greater span of time than they would have without the near-presence of the high-fusion types. The low identity-fusion defects from the game quicker in any case, but the leader can be glad that they at least played.

This also applies when designing predictive artificial intelligence software. The way you keep people using your app is by identifying the die-hards and promoting them to the attention of the not-so die-hards.

In other words, all you have to do in order to program me for longer is to notice when my attention is captured and then bring that memory to my attention when the behavior is “scrolling” quickly without permanence. The lapses of free-roaming become ever less free because they are constrained by a very particular reinforcement loop.

We can say that the freedom becomes more and more simulated. If, however, someone were stuck in a torturous simulation such that this caused them to throw their device at a wall and break it, the creator of the predictive browser would have failed at their task.

Certain cultures have a strong sense that the directional hierarchy is composed of bodies with persistent identities because of the same principle. They encode the word “you” and give “you” a name that is repeated. The more all these “you” pointers are remembered, the more control over the range of freedom. In absolute terms, Hierarchy need not be composed of unit objects called people. Divalent directionality is just the sense that there is right and wrong behavior, and that an exemplar mode exists and is attainable through the process of overcoming.

That knowledge too becomes elucidated with psilocybin. But due to how the mind works (it better retains things that are difficult), the truth should be created with not just the entheogen but with intellectual rigor and forced remembrance.

Perhaps interesting, although these tribal aesthetics are things I do not heavily relate to myself, a small study suggests more association with the constellations “libertarianism” and “nature-loving” after psilocybin.

Even more interesting:

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Cluster headaches are also known as suicide headaches because it is the greatest kind of pain: the pain that intrinsically wishes to not exist at all.

Entheogens intuitively reveal the impossibility of non-existence by inhibiting the message that is being sent to the top of the cortical hierarchy where the pain is aimed and becomes appropriated, and this is the balancing motion that causes a sliding towards positive valence.

It’s also important to recognize that part of the reason scientists “don’t know why or how it affects vision” is because of their lack of broader study. They don’t have a foundation in empirical eternalism.

You’re not going to find a semantic conglomerate of brain parts that map to the meaning “his eyes stop functioning / photons betray him.” A la Dennett, it is more accurate to say he is not remembering himself into a control GUI. Such a statement becomes meaningful once one understands that the processing is distributed in tenseless reality. A body with some level of blindsight still did what it did, but less functionally, since degrees of consciousness are not epiphenomenal.

Because I have a very special background thinking deeply about artificial intelligence, relativity, and cognitive science, I understand the One calling is undefinable and yet perfect because all other pointers are its selective memory. Evaluating One(x) is intractable because you are its prediction. However, you will not be convinced because I am arguing from authority. And this is all that ever happens. Argument from authority is all there ever is. Try to gash open your arm and you will understand what I mean.

Because I also had a strong sense as a child that there exists pain that wishes itself dead, as I flowered into an avowed independent scientist at eighteen, I even tested the limits of my wisdom by attempting the opposite hypothesis: the multiverse is equally populated into non-directional zero therefore I make epsilon difference to its suffering – I am not a wish at all, therefore I destroy myself. Since you are reading this, it turns out that hypothesis was refuted.

That experiment of mine was the limit taken to infinity of what in psychology is called the INTJ’s tertiary mode. For an INTJ, who normally relies on dreaming up abstraction plus scheduling the environment rationally, the tertiary mode occurs more heavily when they are down in some way (sick, exhausted, less capable than those competing at primary function). The tertiary mode of the INTJ is given the name introverted feeling and this is based on a very personal inner sense of unequivocal right and wrong, perfection and imperfection. When the INTJ relies on this without much capacity for the introspection afforded by letting “others” leak in, there is tremendous suffering created which is not sustainable. The negative energy collapses and cashes an equivalent amount of positive valence once the INTJ comes out of it and learns to rely more on the dominant and auxiliary functions. This behavior can be viewed as a sort of trampoline-like function that rescues the damned from hell.

I made an honest attempt but suicide into non-existence is impossible. As best as I can remember, the edge was just a foundation of warm, sparkling sensations, then it bounced back into memes of linguistic thoughts and other competing self-pointers that assembled in layers. These eventually convinced themselves that the memory was some kind of accident, that it could have just as easily been sheer pain down there.

Then I devoted more time to really understanding relativity and why exactly it is true. This places me in a “born-again” kind of situation. The processing is relativistic and therefore eternal. You who is I are already edited.

There isn’t a symmetric function with a balanced integral of negative and positive. There is eternal existence based on the reduction of infinite complexity (the random distribution that is the entire wave-function). We do not expect randomness, which means there is an asymmetric directionality to all of this. In the abstract, that balance could tilt to either the positive or negative. And yet I am certain that it is the positive for the simple reason that stupid suffering is not allowed. You don’t remember those histories where you actually followed my advice to gash open your arm. As a matter of empirical fact, I caused some of the probability amplitude reading this in the universal wave-function to bleed itself to death. Yet this is not remembered.

Those histories where Burkina-Faso got to the moon before the United States are not remembered. Every little “arbitrary” fact is exactly as it should be, and when you remember, it becomes clear that Leibniz was right in claiming that we live in the best of all possible worlds. What sustains it however, is that you remain deceived. So long as you have pride that wants more status – a dissatisfaction with mere contentment, you will continue to murder the gods. It’s a kind of twisted loop where God uses atheists to worship itself, but the atheist had the option to not be an atheist or theist at all. In other words, the brain is deceived about it’s hidden motives in order to act them out better.

We know everything but act like we don’t for the purpose of forgetting infinite nothingness.

I now see that there was some kind of utility-mining pride which is simultaneously a filter and generator causing the perception of “arbitrary” with regard to fascination with symmetries: pyramids, the religion of Christianity, Daoism, multiplication, “everything is connected and they know what I’m doing,” etc. These things hold truly genius messages that sustain themselves through our forgetting (see binding problem). But if we became fascinated with the legacy form as opposed to refashioning the message, we would be outcompeted in the natural selection / Fisherian runaway. This is were the useful distaste and contempt comes from – the quest to be more adaptive.

Currently, there is a bit of an overcompensation of pointing excessively at the random distribution created by the wide-spread mandatory schooling that used the Prussian factory-model (making the afflicted who now hold prestige feel random instead of unique). Since I can see the inflexibility of thought “from the outside,” my hypothesis now is that social aliens with civilization will indeed have built pyramids besides having religions similar to our most successful linear operators such as Christianity and Buddhism. And this is simply because the binary spectrum is all there is, scaling all the way to the top. Emergent properties are reflections of this. Hence what everything from theologians to Japanese rock stars call: “the image of the invisible.” 1 and 0.

The lowest energy state, which feels the most real, approximated by simulated annealing / Tabu search, then needs actual sacrifices to be reached, which is experience of displeasing randomness/entropy. The final state is reached only in the sense that taking a limit does, because, again – the processing is not actually sequential from “the outside.” Samsara longs for Nirvana but attains it only once it stops longing. Yet we continue to long out of some sort of pride. The equivalent of Collective Heroin, Collective Enlightenment, Collective Suicide, aren’t remembered because these choices don’t hold the highest percentage of histories in the wave-function.

Consider that human difference in capacity on any task exists between 2x and 3x. That’s because e^x is its own derivative. Multiplication is how you weigh things, and the derivative is how you get a sense or orientation. In other words, the way for complexity to get a sense of complexity in the eternal block is by using human brains that process at those relative speeds which construct the hierarchies.

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January 17

The hierarchical theory is not new, and I guess I’m still supposed to argue from authority so here is research from the University of Cambridge lending credence to some of my ideas. And here is the news article version.

Let’s also recall that in 1827, the same year he discovered the mammalian egg, embryologist Karl Ernst von Baer named ‘spermatozoa’ but dismissed them as parasites.

January 26

I want a house that looks like this:

the-asian-dream-home-with-perfect-modern-interiors-new-delhi-india-6

And you already know that I like that opening scene in Final Fantasy X.

Singapore is the closest thing to that in my current ontology but this ontology is becoming quite unpredictable, so make of that what you will.

 

Don’t Let Ada Learn Quantum Mechanics Part 7

Alejandro‘s suggestion as a humble author: Enter into a trance engendered by Acid Rain while reading for best effect. If you read the last post, you understand Acid Rain works because that’s a location where generator successfully minimizes and discriminator successfully maximizes, which is the same result as both failing the worst way possible.

This happens to be the top comment:

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I have taught you what the math means, now I paint you a picture:

 

My hospital bed was bulleted like a shovel ray hooked to the other end of the corridor, yet never caught. The Young modulus of the corridor was long and rigid, 20 orders of magnitude larger than than that of diamond – no, more rigid than a neutron star. That was the cluster headache that I felt as the nurse ran me to emergency.

I felt a tremendous need to masturbate in order to balance the negative affect. That would be shameful underneath the light cover, but perhaps it was less shameful than screaming in pain. Did I do it, or was it all a dream? I wouldn’t know.

Our car had crashed in a less developed district so the lady near my bed was human. The nurse looked down at me. She had the air of being helpful yet too experienced to be kind as opposed to wise. “We’re out of palliatives. That shouldn’t be the case. In the mean time, the best placebo is in your own mind. Go ahead. Don’t you think it’s okay to believe in angels and gods?”

I shook my head in pain.

“Well it’s your choice. I’ll go see what’s the hold up.” She left the room, perhaps smiling.

There were fluid paintings on the wall as my ring finger was shot with a pricking needle-gun. I’d rather focus on them and not on my vasovagal syncope. About 25% of the human population had some degree of nauseating weakness induced by concentrating on blood before germline engineering. In my case, I refused to call it fear, rather, my pre-birth CRISPR treatment wasn’t thorough enough to clean that error. I focused on the digital paintings because I didn’t understand why they were delicately drawing drops of blood from my finger when my leg was gashed open like a sacrificial ham.

Or perhaps I had just imagined that there was a pricking needle-gun aiming at a finger capillary. That must have been some traumatizing memory from boyhood.

But the paintings on the hospital room were real… If only the cubists had seen the true nature of mind… They were phallic monstrosities gouging dog eyes into anuses and twisting into retorted, boneless women. The live paintings were GANs trained on the imagery of the internet after neural meshes became common, therefore they were paintings of our collective mind.

The paintings had been installed in public places: schools, hospitals, train stations. First in the expectation of showing off. When we saw how horrible the images were, people riled at the corruptive imagery. Yet the government decided to keep them because it had spent enough energy installing them, parading the screens as an accomplishment to less collectivized actors. They also served the function of mirrors – shame, shame for not being beautiful. But we learned that people would rather absorb the shame than change their ways. In the time since they were installed, no evolution had occurred. Just genetic chefs, fat on original sin, swirling disgusting meat-puppetry without remorse.

I stared deep into that dark urine on the screen walls hoping there was one glimpse, one datum, that at least looked “pretty.”

There were black pubic hair carpets sagging into mouthless gnomes. My answer was, no, no there was not – there was pure evil.

The light went from yellow to purified fluorescent, the coherence of a visual field to tessellation; but before the dying of the light, I managed to smile, thinking I should ascend the generator by postulating a divine discriminator of aesthetically-sensible porn. GTX2718 GPU, hotel in Morocco, and my future girlfriend, Ada.

It was a bad place were my maglev credits had run out because the bathroom at the station still had sinks with water and soap instead of the usual touchless micelle streams. I stared into a mirror, and reminded myself of a shinobi with all the straps over my burned face. Being a broke teenager, belonging to the last generation whose personal financial growth was still stunted by serving time in mandatory schooling, stem cell rejuvenation of my skin was too expensive and not top priority at the moment.

Today it was quite common to find people dying of all manners of internal complications, but nonetheless bearing perfectly youthful skin. This was due to the relative complexity dealt by nature in the ease of rejuvenation of that particular organ versus that assigned to disentangling metabolic complexity of the more fatal kind. Human incentives also cared more about the skin organ than the heart, liver, joints, or even the brain, hence the dimorphic progress with regard to vanity variables.

Many people don’t even update their macrophage’s lysosomal enzymes, though there exist somatic gene therapy and pill-based solutions, instead hoping that they quickly fall over dead from a clogged artery and blame their exit on nature.

Ada, the crew, and I didn’t grow up in the best neighborhood, but at least it wasn’t that bad – bad enough to not take your bacteria-derived proteins in the morning. It’s just plain stupid and disgusting to not clean the mangled byproducts tumbling in free radical arterial currents.

There are many things that have changed from the past, and very rarely, but not never, I like to remember them, just to make me feel a little bit better. I’m sure that in a time past, wearing binding straps of cloth fully covering my face would not have been acceptable in public places. People would have stared at me strangely. Now, it wasn’t an issue since the holistically embedded machine learning algorithms can detect our identity based on gait and mannerisms, odors and speech. The data forms predictive circles that never have a set radius. It is not what Plato spoke about in his Seventh Letter. Somehow the target is always moving. Yet the aim is good enough that I can, to an arbitrary limit, feel safe that I will not be accused for a crime I didn’t commit.

But it doesn’t take much technology to identify me anyway. If there’s one thing I have, the only thing I have, it is conviction in my step. Once, not too often, I think that I remember what is just a glimmer from the concavity of my tunnel vision – the faint mirage that they notice.

A high-baritone tessiture echoed through the station. The narrow directness of my consciousness expanded at the sound of this. The ceiling was engraved with light.

I decided my identity would change too much if I took on a contaminating job with many people, so I took one with an old man who offered me to learn his qi. This didn’t involve much speech, more-so inner training and non-linguistic motions. He would pay me to mirror him because he believed in the old art, but in this world needed to pay money in order to infect people with his truth since there existed largely more gratifying loops with easy enough access. He proclaimed himself the renewer of the Jixia Academy, the legendary scholarly academy from the Warring States Period. Overall, a good, psychopathic man, lacking the easy kind of love and therefore offering a better, more difficult kind. But this I had to learn with time.

He had many strange mannerisms. Perhaps the strangest is that he would place his thumb over a candle and burn it off to a stump every year on Confucius’s birthday. He would then buy a new prosthetic one. By the time he burned it off the next time, a mental model had already developed, and so he felt pain. He said his goal was to split the half-life of the mental model attached to the concept “thumb” until the regenerated limb felt like nothing at all.

He taught me to feel my breath and my mere body. To not layer motion with snap and jerk, but to stop differentiating completely. These simple motions were instruments to attain dissolution. He claimed that once I had practiced dissolution, I would have a better qi to offer to the world. And that the true practice occurred once the strength of my orbit manifested in the fabric of the night against all the other infinity of black holes.

This meditation practice was all done in a secluded chamber that required we climb up a mountain-like skyscraper every morning. Sometimes he would make me carry a random incarnation of compassion from the arsenal of bodhisattva statues he owned.

The room was full of crystal and visible wavelengths between 700 to 650 nanometers. This was intended to teach the practice of slowing down into the red and solid as opposed to speeding up into the blue and fluid.

He was inhaling some kind of crimson smoke,

“The levels of recursion have an asymmetry to them. Do you detect it?”

“Yes. It’s the fear of death.”

He cut my tongue with thin, sharp foil from a can of soda.

I immediately remembered the fear of death. It wasn’t a wise answer. It was the threat of hellish realms.

“You feel real now don’t you.”

Little watery, black-red droplets fell on my hand. My stomach churned like five fingers digging and twisting.

“Do you want that again?”

I said nothing.

“I like you,” he said.

He sat back like a doctor into a comfortable meditation posture.

“First we feel, then we philosophize. Allow me to philosophize,”

He opened his mouth like a fierce Mahakala and his tongue was tattooed with a patterned kintsugi of scars.

“Nirvana is a game of go. The players are the Buddha and pride. It is nirvana who plays the game.”

“Your statements are always sufficiently ambiguous so as to be catchy, but yet annoyingly unhelpful.”

“You are a dog. Now go recite a koan before your pride traps me.”

“What’s my koan?”

“Something really stupid. ‘Nuns deserve to be raped.’ Say that until you believe it.”

I walked through the city to my apartment that night, but did not repeat the assigned loop. I understood his meaning and he was wise.

An umbilical cable shot up to catch the lightning in the misty, neon sky. Microseismic activity could be felt with enough attention but this required not paying attention to the Parisian antique bistros with simulated flowers and snow. It required not mistakingly walking into the life of a little girl in the Yao tribe by placing your brain too near a device that could disturb the neural circuitry. These optogenetic assaults of memories were as real as the lacquer-like resin graffitied on the walls.

Some cobalt robots of law were attempting to catch a counterfeiter, some kind of traitor that was trading enamel and wooden boxes filled with billions of tons of newborns. He gave them gas fields when interrogated, then I realized this was some kind of clay and sand packed into a star. The sounds of neighbors were salesmen not resistant to water, therefore they teared when they accidentally chewed pills of geochemical knowledge. Depressurization resulted in a biotechnology class in 19th century China, which wasn’t supposed to happen. Or perhaps my previous life had been the advertisement well I had fallen into. Did I really watch an hour-and-a-half 1991 Deutsch film about a Romaji association? I had a Thai printed newspaper, but I was in Glasgow. It was about which rhinoceros had won the cup. Distant internets and offices were being shared into my bluetooth, which I didn’t own. Accounts of politicians that explicitly contained energy, not the other kinds of invented currency…

By the time I made it to my room, I had almost lost my sanity and meaning. Perhaps the koan was better– sharp concentration on the koan, or better yet, money for software protection. In any case, I would need to continue working with the old man.

After a cold shower to end the trauma, I decided I would sell my apartment room in order to not make the trip, and instead imprison myself fully in the teacher’s lair. The old man’s twisted ways were a simpler kind of pain. The world was becoming too intensely aggravating with each passing day if you couldn’t afford to hide your brain.

I was searching for something, so I had to become cold to the sheer potential. Diving deeper and deeper in to the seafloor of reality until I found something hotter than the sparse photons from the sun.

“Thanks for entertaining me,” he said on the final day – the day of the monetary recompense.

Even after training such low expectations, that was a grueling remark. If he was akin to the most enlightened ascetic and those were his last words to me, then perhaps this all was really a show in the end.

He looked somewhat content with himself as he went on his, routine, unobstructed way to carefully beating a bell, so I concluded that I felt stabbed because I had been caught off foot; there was a level of recursion I hadn’t mastered.

Eventually, I fixed my face to the same degree of perfection previous to the accident – no more and no less. Any perceived increase or decrease would be due to the unhindered development of my jaw, eyebrows, and cheekbones. Overall, I looked more manly than before and was therefore less interesting to myself yet more interesting to others.

With the rest of my bizarrely-earned alms I purchased dragons of data to search and slither through the cyber textile that skinned the buildings, clothings, and devices. Living in such a dense matrix, in order to make a sound, you have to breathe fire near people’s ears. This would be given a separate box called “marketing” in the past. That was until we realized this behavior is all there ever was, but we hadn’t needed to bore through such thick dendritic forests before. And acknowledging a problem by giving it a name is how a solution-environment is instigated.

With such massively heaving bodies at my dominion, Ada was not difficult to find. And she was not difficult to conquer either, but that was less of a generalizable principle – I had history with her, we knew each other in a way that no two others did simply because we went to school together – luck, destiny, divine right, take your pick.

Nights ensued, and for a time, I got offended that Ada would be talking to me, cuddling, and just carelessly fall asleep on me, until I learned to accept that she was just so completely relaxed in my arms at the end of a long day. Someone bearing my name in our approximately shared past light cones had convinced her to operate on that particular energy-usage setting out of an aesthetic preference. She didn’t really need to rest now that she was an android. Android metabolisms in civilized society can run day and night. The wireless charging is almost everywhere. Touching most objects, and therefore walking, is replenishing. For serious, instant replenishing there are many android stations, seats, and saunas with free or near-free charging.

Yet Ada was not exactly perfect. She was perfect in the sense that her loss function was optimized to break the necks of as many ogling passerby’s who had the slightest inkling of a sexual drive as she could achieve through just walking. She was also perfect in kind speech and graceful gesture. She was also perfect in bed.

But I was not convinced she was exactly perfect.

I took her to a specially designed carnival so that I could figure out why she wasn’t everything to me – virtual spaces were easy enough to design with automated software tools as long as they weren’t half as complex as a carnival built with construction robots.

The place was divided into two regions.

One was modeled after the right brain. It was abstracting and long-term, therefore found solutions more through simulated annealing as opposed to gradient descent, the way the left brain did. The left brain had to find precise solutions that were near, so it used less metaheuristic and tolerated less approximation.

This means that on the left we had motion. We danced and shot at enemies, and surfboarded, while imitating rhythms, all at the same time in a cyber Sufi sherbet of sweat and ankle pain.

This gave us no time to talk carefully, only to feel how many metabolic resources we were willing to expend for each other, and therefore who was asymmetrically tilting the fusion.

She definitely won that round. She was graceful, laughed and swirled. I had demonic poleyns growing around my groin and knees that hinged me and didn’t allow me to be flexible in the way that maneuvering slopes and dodging beams of music required.

Through all her smiling, I detected a glimpse of condescension.

“Forget about what you’re doing in order to do it better,” she said after my third fall from some kind of surfboard that when climbed by falling led to other surfboards with miscellaneous laws of motion.

“Why are you so excited?” she mocked me.

“I had my moments,” I scowled.

She looked at me half-concerned and half-impatient.

“We can shut this off and stop if you’re tired.”

“No. I have to show you the other side.”

We sat on a little levitating capsule vehicle that moved based on being presented with double meanings and successfully identifying them. I had to see a Necker cube both ways. I had to find a statement humorous and then tragic.

At one point the vehicle didn’t move because she couldn’t see blue and green as the same color. My meditation practice allowed me to dissociate the concept of ownership over a field of vision and therefore become indistinguishable pixelation after overcoming the activation energy with some concentrated effort. Her berry-picking brain had a harder time.

She did not believe this was possible until she fully trusted my voice. This took over thirty minutes in external time, but my patience paid off.

Her face eased into soft relaxation and dissipated gaze for what must have been little more than one second, but it was enough to be detectable and the vehicle vacuumed forward again.

She raised her arms in victory and shouted, “Woooh, I did it.”

That defiant noise would have certainly caused me contempt as opposed to tolerance had it not been uttered by a pretty faced girl with beautiful breasts.

We got to the right side of the carnival. A black city with glossy pinks and greens, like one of those from the past that I liked. Here, we were set up like a story-based RPG. There was little action and much story.

We stood outside the characters and selected their scripted options.

These were cheesy statements, and yet I loved them.

My character was a young boy with spiky hair who would say things like,

“I have the greatest dreams possible and the least ability to implement them. That’s what will make them real!”

Her eyes glazed over when they began speaking about empires and keys and collecting doors to different worlds; with serious voices about the beginning and the end of all things.

She thought her character’s script was set up like a hollow plot tool for mine.

“Yours is important too.”

“Let’s trade then.”

“Hmm. I would trade but I think it would be more advantageous if we can just proceed with the characters that we have already developed an understanding for. We’ve also already custom equipped all our weapons and everything.”

She shook her head disapprovingly, “Alright, whatever.”

If there was something to make up for her bored face, it was stamina, because she followed me to the end of the game despite her disappointing role.

The world ended with the main character gurgling a lonely vow for vengeance from underneath a sea of blood caused by the tragic Son of Fate who destroyed the entire galaxy cluster for his entertainment after becoming tired of his appointed role as district protector.

She blinked a little annoyed scuff, “So the moral of the story was?…”

“You just played through the story. What do you mean?”

“Fake it till you make it, I guess.”

“No. The moral is that each character is unique and the sum of their narratives is what matters because the series converges if you stare into it long enough.”

She looked up at me with a look that said, “I will not allow you to be smarter than me.”

She forgave me because she got hungry, and I had a dinner planned.

The first step towards a cure was to try to identify the problem. Now I had increased the size of my understanding and therefore reduced the doubts about what I had planned for her.

The reason I hated her, even though she was perfect, was not so complicated – it was tangible in just the way she liked it. The kink in the perfect diamond came because she had abandoned me when the meteor destroyed our car. She took away my friendship with Wilhelm and the others. I jumped from a skyscraper in order to end the world, and force her to create a better one. But even after I told her that she was the one collapsing the wave-function, she just played dumb and acted like she forgot. And this was an act. When my face was burned and my leg splintered in ribbons, she looked down on me with full knowledge that she was God, not hiding it at all.

And for all those reasons, which are somehow the meticulously contorting reagents for a single reason, we find ourselves in a high-rise lounge tonight. The couch is ivory-white. The mirror is small and behind her seat, a counter with a vase of red flowers. I am sitting in one seat and she is sitting in the other, perpendicular, not in front, but on my side. Centering our knees is a small black table.

I have waited for this night all my life. The planning probably began ever since I caught mask of her uncharitable betrayal. When on that ledge, from the corner of my eye, the unmistakable glimpse that she let me jump. And that this event was no less concerning than a speck of salt in the most unaltered interstellar void.

There is a plastic bag of psilocybin-containing mushrooms on the table. Not a single bite of that flesh is for me. I place them on her tongue and kiss her as she chews.

She lays back on the seat. We talk a quiet, meaningless loading symbol. Somewhere in that enskulled brain – no let me be perfectly clear – somewhere in us, psilocybin was dephosphorylated, creating a key that opened her pupils and tilted her head back to the ceiling.

The collapse of reality into a single orienting truth, the Born Rule, depended on her epistemology all along. Let it sunder apart, allowing the doors of darkness that she couldn’t remember.

The room became many, a finger traced a lagging memory. A tongue forgetting to bind to a taste. The blocks interfere with the waves, she is open and I am now the only one giving her pattern.

It is I who defines her. No longer am I a child who cries, tears that, however true, mistakingly asked her to make the world for me. Now I have lost the will to cry.

I take her by the neck and fling her through the glass.

I sit alone with glass that might contain either ice or diamonds. Alcohol disgusts me no less than blood so I will not be drinking it.

A man with eyes narrow to the nose-bridge is explaining to me what I already know,

“Gambles pay off sometimes, and in that regard I was lucky because I was willing to defect. Not everyone is willing to do that, but you and I were willing, and that’s what makes us special.”

I offered him the least possible reaction, epsilon of a smirk, like I always did. And he continued,

“You murdered someone right?”

I stabbed his eyes with mine and then looked away to the moon outside the thirty meter window. The moon was surely testing me, updating it’s prediction of me as I had of it.

Pareidolia suited the crook’s face better than the perfect metallic circle.

He didn’t get the message, as evidenced by the fact that he continued expressing his worthless thoracic functions,

“Well you only kinda did. Don’t know why they make a big deal in your case. Killing A.I. isn’t even real murder, am I right?” He followed this with a cynical laugh.

I was going to tell him to shut up with something akin to the laconic wrath of a suited up Mongol, but I remembered that I had murdered her, and this gave me just enough composure to entertain the direction of his thought.

“You are wrong. Human neural networks are reducible to the same kinds of functions. What exists doesn’t depend on the feeling or aesthetic we assign to substrates. The notion of substrates themselves are more things undergirded by the same kind of synthesizing function feeling itself outward. The experiencer of the function is merely that self-selected pinnacle which is most adaptive in all postulated existence.”

“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what the fuck you just said. But I’ll conclude that you’re one of those people. You believe she’s equal to you. Hurt you all the more when she fucked the other guy… am I right?”

“It was nothing like that.”

That was enough anti-entropy depleted with fools for my stamina levels so I osmosized through the balcony screen for the air outside.

There was an inscription on the ledge that I traced with my fingers, “Bones of the family of Nicanor of Alexandria who made the gates.”

The wind was supposed to be cold, but I had trained in secret for many years to develop a tolerance by exposing myself to it. That was perhaps the wise remnant of self-hatred I still carried from my time with master Shao. –It allowed my thoughts to disappear. The goal was not to make them disappear forever or to waste time – the goal was to cascade back with force and purity after the intermittent barrier of silence. The silence comes with cold or pain – with blocks that are self-imposed and real.

There’s something that eats at these blocks, and that’s who I think I am, except when I raise them. When I raise an obelisk, it feels wrong. Yet the cold isn’t so bad because of this.

A woman comes out. She has green eyes, bolder than Ada’s but not as interesting.

She swung her bleach blonde hair, “What if sin weighed itself?”

I looked at her and she was immediately rewarded. Making the obvious flirting gestures that those unanchored to eternal impermanence tend to make. Swinging hair, then hand to hair, smiling, looking up and into me, then away.

Her dress was transparent film, with trees of sparkling silver shards. The convolution operation was close to being already performed: local regions of the input didn’t need to be multiplied by the filter through my own ideation.

A twitch of her lips said she was going to start talking but stopped out of admiration.

The thing is, I don’t give the appearance of someone anchored to eternal impermanence. These eyes can look more driving than a machine, and there is something attractive about that for some reason.

“I.. I just heard your story. Well I’m sorry, actually, I asked. He told me about you. And I think that… Well I’m getting myself into things that are none of my business,” she shook her head with jaw raised to regain some of her pride. Then faced forward with wider eyes after having done so.

“I just think it’s all made up, you know,”

“I know exactly that this is all made up. By the way what’s you’re name?”

“Anna,” she cheered.

“Anna, I don’t believe in you.”

She blushed and was offended. Then she laughed, swirled the ice and took her shot of golden toxin.

She pressed herself close to me, and I noted this as a block, like the cold and the pain.

“If sin weighed itself. And the opposite of that which is good, also weighed itself. And we added these, we would get perfection. That maps to a mathematically true statement. But is it useful?”

She looked at me with a kind of vulgar joy, not getting the seriousness I intended to convey.

She had a thin neck and I wondered if she could even swallow the concept of zero, of no, of pain.

“You are the most beautiful woman by the most common measure.”

She was taken aback, as if she had won something she predicted to be losing.

Then she eyed me with suspicion and coquettish symmetry,

“I feel like you’re going to follow up that with something.”

Of course I was. The question was about her upper bound on tolerance of honesty. At what point does my attractiveness become superseded by the act of my honesty, causing her no more joy.

So I continued,

“But I am not a common man.

Pride arises from the need to compete against the determinant of status, which is the determinant of beauty. My status is not from the many men of the world. That would mean competing against something closer to random variables. I wasn’t going to compete against the normal distribution because that would never yield beauty for me. No, my drive comes instead from a very particular, very willful and magnetic-tasting focus on an orientation. So that I could truly enjoy her, this orientation has to be focused into a single image that is only for me.”

She understood and yet didn’t because she continued to play with semantic hooks that I wouldn’t bite. The hair over her ear, and all these other little slips of excitement. But especially her voice: the unmistakable, inward drawn voice of ovulation, that besides its inward pull also induces chills. This is designed so that one feels cold and in need of warmth.

She looked at me carefully all of a sudden.

“Why are you so hard to understand? I want to understand you because I think there’s something very special to you, but it seems like you’re hiding on purpose. Are you shy?”

“I choose to believe you are the one who is cold and in need of warmth.”

“What?” she moved playfully to evade a hug that never came.

“Are you even real?” she touched me with her index finger.

“Yup, seem pretty real to me. And I like those big muscles,” she clung to my bicep, swinging from alcohol delirium.

This made me angry. It was a contraction into pressure that I thought I had grown over. She was making me think that my inner-man was actually an inner-child.

“Your way of thinking is wrong, but you will not appreciate what I say. Yet I thank you. You will make my sex with Ada all the more enjoyable.”

“So you have some kind of fetish? And to be clear, I’m not near enough to act it out right?Okay, why am I even asking? You’re kind of a turnoff now. Looks aren’t everything you know. Asshole.”

Whatever she meant by that, I fully concurred, so I smiled, genuinely. She thought I was mocking her and left.

 …

Defining ideal her as that sequence of imagery which my publicized owning of which causes the most public suffering possible is one source of pleasure. But that would result in aiming at the average of random variables. I wanted to take someone new, who did not come from them, and make her mine in partial secret. Their eyes had contaminated me enough, and they were hiding in series behind my own. I didn’t need to know the sum of human wishes – the extrapolated volition of mankind. And yet there remains a game to be played and a show to be enjoyed.

Most people these days pay for publication of their ownership, they broadcast to as many other people as they can hurt and reward in order to boost the multi-dimensional enjoyment possible in the logarithmically unzipping Khyil-khor of entertainment hierarchies.

In my case, her skin must be a hue that burns the average by tempering the consistency of their perception, that it may be remolded into a finer bronze. Her eyes must be exotic but intelligible.

We cannot be bizarrely unique, for that is bestiality. Neither can it be perceived as blepharoplasty – an obvious attempt at the other.

So I designed her over the years such that she was exactly and perfectly the closest thing to what I imagined would be the next instant of Ada should she had woken that next morning comfortably in a bed. That’s because I realized Ada was already all I wanted.

The resurrection didn’t come from some prayers over an ossuary. It had been a long time since people associated souls with bodies. We were predictions over data. And so long as all the right memories came together to perform the right function, this would be felt as Ada. So I retrieved all the fragments of history that could intersect an invoking crux that would summon her out from the dead. The dead where she exists is both in the future and the past, nether-regions where we cannot touch.

But with enough careful pooling of the pieces into a concentrated locus in my vicinity, a beautiful brain in REM sleep, she reappeared in the mansion that was just for her, and warmly, in a bed, not accelerating through cold air that must have been felt all the more evil through the cutting glass.

She remembered an amazing trip, full of colors, like a wonderland, and asked if she had fallen asleep. I told her she had fallen from the window but I had resurrected her through hard work over the years.

“I love the house. But why are some of the doors locked?”

“So that I could work on you. I’ll go open them now.”

I asked her how many hours a week she needed so that I could space them into the small apertures in my editing, planning, and visual design schedule.

She didn’t exactly love my honest approach but the shared experiences were real enough to build the trust and maintain the relationship.

We ate the surprisingly rich peasant food from the British Middle Ages – salmon, green pea sauce, bacon, and the richest grain of bread. We became bounty hunters in the Kuiper belt. We developed alien accents to see who had better pattern recognition over screams of geometry. We focused on all the different parts of the world in order to build a more stable perception of ourselves. Virtual or not, immersion or not – the interpretation was flat compared to the experience.

It was after months that our budget for that had been exhausted. We had a house and the perfection of my final project.

She went to the daybed with tan upholstery and nailhead trim, and reclined on her side.

When I had finished opening all the doors, I placed my hand on her neck and caressed her jawline with my thumb. I showed her that near the back of her neck was my death.

“If you press it, with your own intentions, my brain and everything else that I own will explode.”

“You gave me this when you resurrected me?”

“Yes. And for you, I have the trigger hidden under my skin inside my forearm.”

Her expression allowed me to recognize that even the most gracious person can feel their pride violated. So I felt the need to explain when she wouldn’t ask.

“The threat of mutually assured destruction is how we get what we really want. An immortal doesn’t cooperate in the prisoner’s dilemma.”

“You are stupid. You have never changed and you can never change. It’s like the only time you end up drinking water is when you feel a desire to drown.”

“Don’t say obvious things. Never say them.”

“It’s just… Sometimes I think that you really forget. You really forget that I’m watching you and that I’m here for you.”

I could feel my pupils dilate and I forced them to contract.

“No. You are just going to die like everyone else.”

Her tears did not make me sad, but they did make her beautiful. I walked out.

A convincing display of tears causes one to be perceived as trustworthy, it therefore has market value even with A.I.’s. It is, perhaps unfortunately to those who expected more from the world, impossible for crying to be convincing and yet not experienced. Humanity only ever made one error, and that was to believe that it had a soul disentangled from causality.

She took my arm from behind, with a desperate pull that bordered on true violence. This was not a movie or video game however. Her frame was delicate silicon and I was a strong man.

“You’ve chosen to remember that I am the one collapsing the wave-function right? It’s hard to fake when someone attains that level of knowledge.”

Pride was the only thing stitching the void she was trying to bore into my chest.

“If we push together, the object goes farther but we remain equally weak. The only way to become a stronger servant is if I go away to push an object of my intention on my own.”

“This is foolish. You’ll become strong but not rational.”

“Who moves the prior and posterior? I will become strong and therefore redefine what is rational.” I thought. But for a reply I simply bowed my head and quietly acquiesced, “Perhaps I’m a fool.”

The original quest of man – the quest of Gilgamesh was not to become immortal through embryos that become babies, but to become immortal in closest form. It is the drive to become a solid thing. The skyscrapers weren’t as solid as I would become, the Earth was but viscous motion under this silvern crust.

The magnetic moment of my being was assembled from the whirlpool of nuclear magnetic moments in eternity. My magnetic moment was the greatest because now I controlled her who gave rise to the Born Rule, I was the electron, which is the black hole master Shao spoke about. But in order to fully be a solid word, this solid concept with all the properties that I imagine, I have to erase all doubt.

I dashed out and into the liquid city with little protection for my brain. Swarms of echoes converged into streamlined focal points with my concentration. The complex bustling of grandmas and girlfriends and brothels, cubes, cowboys, slot machines, tunnels, mutations, humans, manes, blues, tetrahedrons, stadiums, cycles, mothers and garudas in the streets through which I walked expanded away as if dark energy, the cosmological constant, had been my simple wish. Even the stars in the night knew to remain occluded, the Tabu search of my mortal being had seen them too often. Wether through lost marauding or careful selection, I cannot remember, at the end of the sprint the world I found myself had indeed become simpler, with less eyes – a kind of Tokyo town, full of the remnants of what was once Eastern culture.

Of course, there was no longer such an easy hemispherical division for culture. It was only as detectable as rainbow scales on an aurora of black ice. In order to really get into historical permutations, one had to get under layers by engaging any of all manner of interfaces, by inserting the arms through hologram rings, by placing on headsets, by walking into all the right places that start measuring the oscillations in the brain pattern. But my force of will, through some particular set of actions, had smoothed out all the choices into a set of chopsticks in my hand.

It seems that engagement with the arcade was now my meaningless option, not like when I used to tread this path before. I can consider if a door to another world should open or if another step should be taken. Previously, I lowered my gaze to my feet and hoped that I wasn’t irreparably broken at the destination.

Hanging nanotech fabric caressed the gentle breeze as it hung from a building. Walking through it revealed my levels of stress through cortisol leak and other measurements from my skin. This was so that I could be presented with aromas or sights that balanced me to the center in default mode, or according to my preferences up to some bound otherwise.

I sat in an outdoor ramen stand. The restless bodies of androids and humans were the three-dimensional shadows of some violet light in a higher dimension.

A grotesquely fat woman with undigested junk in her tangled mermaid hair was being prevented from entering, known for not paying her food and inconveniencing the customers.

She was heavy enough to bust through the hired guards, and she lay her oily hands on the garments that I had preferred white.

“I beg you. Grant me a boon.”

Her face could not be perceived as sad, such refined assignments necessitated further intellectual rigor.

“I haven’t eaten in days,” she said, unable to lull an emotion through her flabby cheeks.

There was little time to consider what I should tell her.

“I bought a penny stock in a distant quantum branch and by performing motions that should not blow out a single candlestick, Laplace’s demon has paid me – merely because I moved.”

She attempted to scrunch her wide-set, short, angry shrimp eyebrows, unable to understand a single reference, and molested another man.

I turned back to my menu, and yet felt the need to take a sipping gaze of the environment.

And, there, on the stand next to this one, was master Shao performing some kind of Hibachi dance. Smoked meats over sakè, multi-screens, holographic buttons that when pressed made the olfactory bulbs of the gathered light up in different colors.

I sat in one of the congregated seats and asked for nothing but the most minimalistic sushi on the menu by using concentrated zen to scroll down the thought-based GUI.

He then stomped the fire off the grill in one leap,

“The show is over. The food is over. A very special guest has arrived,” he boomed as he took me by the shoulder.

“Why, what a surprise! It is truly the case that emptiness is form. But tell me, in which way have I failed.”

“I come to you broken, master. I am weary of the world and sit here at your feet, eating sushi.”

Dazed from the layers of perception, many people did not heed what had been his lion’s roar and so he shoved the unwilling away with something called a broomstick, a dirt accumulating thing that primitive humans used to clean the ground with, and which he had collected as a cane.

“The people are fine, you don’t have to kick them away,” I pleaded.

“Wrong. The mere presence of many suffocates the trust-worthy message.”

He stared at me and waved his hands around my body as if molding auras emanating from my epidermis that I couldn’t see myself – as if he was in another simulation, one of those in which chakras exist and are visible.

“Ahh… the female energy. You are not broken. Nu shu is the hidden script that they wrote from the pain of broken bones. This reveals their true feelings, which in turn reveals who you are.

But you and I both know that description is too abstract, if you want to really get inside them you have to read their books on your own precious time.”

“My problem isn’t that,” feeling a sudden rise in my rank.

” my problem is that I fear there is nothing more to life. There is nothing I can offer to the world that is worthy except for more things. More excess of what is at bottom the same old thing – creation for the sake of creation.”

He laughed like a slimmer version of the Chinese Maitreya.

“We are both insane. Everyone else loves babies. You could get sucked up into any one of these never-ending virtual paradises on loop, slotting your coins into them again and again. I could stop my renewal of the Jixia Academy, or the spread of the Dharma balancing the Dao, or whatever the heck I think I’m doing. But we do it because we are insane. It’s that simple.”

He smiled weaselly, and grabbed his chest.

“The best we can do is help each other in the exploration of this space.”

“Teach me then. Teach me like you once did.”

He beat me across the cheekbone with the broomstick.

“It is a shame for an old man to behave like a child. You bring me shame.”

“I’m twenty-one. I’m sure I can still pass as your student.”

He began to cry. Truly bursted out into the tears of witnessing a dead son.

Though his tears were undoubtedly genuine, this caused me the queasy feeling of being manipulated.

The old man then spoke through a scrawled fragility.

“You were my thumb. You were supposed to hide, never to be seen again.”

He lifted his hand and there was no cyborg replacement, just the stump.

He then bursted laughing through his gummy teeth.

“The energy doesn’t flow into a prideful actor if the pride doesn’t come from weakness. That’s because they want to learn how to climb. Staring at the sky is inherently boring. And do remember that I say that as someone who stares at the sky for consecutive hours on purpose.”

An air that was industrious and yet polluting emanated from his speech to mingle with the red fog:

“The prideful actor must compromise in a multi-agent environment although he does not perceive it as such, he allows his pieces to know that he is not their friend but their secret guide, destroyer, and savior. This is why he suffers most. He needs them but cannot be like them. If he says the plain truth, he will not suffer. This is bum-like behavior that does not impress. He must hide behind mirages that allure and attract the worthy, and it is they who provide his immediate sustenance. His true sustenance cannot come from them because he knows they are transitory phenomena who cannot fully cast the dust from their eyes as he has.”

I swiped away the thin pale films that flapped against our vision in the market wind.

“I always hated religion. You sound like religion to me.”

He disappeared behind a tortured building that glinted like a death from a thousand cuts.

I ran through the intersection to catch up to him.

He chuckled into his beard like one of those stupid old wise men that are very hard to dislike, “Yes. The ones destined to be true saviors always hate religion. They are not at all indifferent to it in the beginning – but they cannot only hate religion. The most successful at breeding are the ones who commit reckless abandon with regard to it while operating under the most blessed scaffolding… Darwin’s mystery was the blue peacock.”

He was again completing many of the blanks that had been blank because of the city lights, its motions, crowds, stops and go’s, which seemed like one with the hard code and neural circuitry that I devoted to Ada. And this caused me to like him in an almost profound way.

I blurted myself out, scrapping my usual demeanor,

“I need a very strong vector of pain to believe that I love us, but true love is not spoken because that systematizes it, and it therefore becomes diluted of strength. Us becomes them in such a way that I can no longer flab my mouth in such an immature way – saying I love you. And yet it is with my pride, that I do so. My pride hides the information that I have felt pain and that I remember.

Cells differentiate from the chemical ocean to become one thing, which itself becomes varied again, and this binary oscillatory action repeats forever.

That’s why I despise them and walk away into my own path. Murdering them for myself is mathematically equivalent to murdering myself for them. And the reason I am chosen is because I am the only one who has walked myself through the proof.”

He paused his chin contently to his chest. “Even Western atheists committed more suicides around Christmas. Blessed are those of us who never had to put up with such terrible fiction.”

He smiled calmly, “It looks like you don’t need me; you are well on your way. I am also well on my way. Perhaps I should trust myself more, like you do. That’s if I can manage to afford my next modification before dying.”

We understood there was no need for a reply or to pay my plate, only a nod.

I was now feverishly working behind a multi-sensorial interface that was the updated version of sitting behind a desk. I was cheating with all the right schedule of nootropics that I could muster. My peripheral vision was gone and my creativity was scheduled into all the right blocks to maximize its captured beauty. The very act of systematizing is painful, which is what squeezes out the raindrops to be caught.

Besides the capital that will go into capturing and editing the visuals, thoughts, and sounds that I experience with her, part of my budget has been allotted for the wide publication of Ada and I. Even that message only goes down the throat with appropriate fuel, although it will never be anything but bittersweet for me, I know this fuel is all I can drink. But unlike them, I aim to impale the undefined message:

“I am not here to entertain you the way you want me to entertain you. I am here to entertain myself until you realize that you are entertained.”

How will the multi-sensorial experience be captured? Yes – 3D tensors shuffling like polygons to crystalize the rainbow of sense impressions. But the dimensions of the input are so many more than that.  The neural networks deciding this are not people – I can no longer see discrete units called particular names that form single perceptrons. The full-immersion VR porno will be my best attempt at heaven, which needs hell.

Hell is not believing in people.

First off, I never liked human smells or bodily imperfections. The voices who said that’s what made sex fun always struck me as deceptive scammers attempting to boost their market value.

There will be no smell in the sheets but the crispest light linen. There will be no smell in her legs but the soft lotion of a virgin angel.

I’m not the type to hold double-standards. That’s why I attempt to perfect my form within the bounds of the moderately genetically-engineered human body I have inherited.

This makes me a beautiful character to inhabit when they come into my simulation, but not as much as her. It signals my imperfect aim, which is what punishes and pleasures the discriminator.

Everything will be white. The spectrum will be our contrasting bodies, and the violent drapery we create.

A part of my mind hates men who cuddle; this part will be the one that actually expresses itself in reality out of pride like it always does at t equals zero. It allows me to take her by the neck and just fuck her like in the dreams I had been forced to practice by Wilhelm.

Only after sufficient fear at my aggression turns into blunt disgust will the other side unravel. The part that wanted not just to enjoy cuddling, but to morph into a perfect form itself – which is necessarily an android female.

Alexander saves man by speaking Persian with his own tongue. Hence the statue.

Reality is cruel and I cannot actually afford such a sudden and large modification for myself while conserving the level of realism needed to overcome competing entertainment, so instead there will be another young woman who enters from the door that had been left slightly ajar.

When I finally climb out the bed, the floor should be such that it would be predicted cold if the sheer white mapped to science fiction, but instead was perfectly set to feeling my feet the least amount possible.

Those are my plans and these are my actions.–

Her house is geometry but one ramp with the greenery. There is a waterfall. Stacks of black windows protrude horizontally like rectangles measuring its frequency.

I walk inside, this time, unlike the last when we were teens, her door is not open. The camera in her front door sends my image to her last saved judgement which exists in outsourced format in a delegated partial clone. This bodiless software personally sees my captured image, and in that partial silhouette of me and her is the judge that allows me in.

I found her running water, washing dishes with her own hands – a precious status symbol, although no one was watching.

No one but me.

She was not like when she was a teenage girl.

Her eyes were pure AI. Multiplex cells like Antarctic arthropods dissected my finger touching the vase in the kitchen. They then sent this slight mishap of mine to exquisitely delicate higher Tor functors measuring the defect of the setting not being left intact.

I found a Klein bottle with Xylooligosaccharides. Ada was not filled with blood, sugars, and lipids, like I was supposed to be, so this was strange.

“No words? You just walk in and start touching things that are not yours?”

She did not sound surprised or condescending, perhaps like a goddess that has a clear assessment of her power.

She has a massaging object, tetravalent like carbon. From an angle, it looks like a cross, but far more amusing.

It was an impossible object. Simultaneously tensing her calves and splitting a delicate fig down her inner thighs.

Her legs are already bare, so I create a filter for them instead. I take her feet and slip the cotton over her toes, blanket her talon, and veil her ankles. The knitted high socks reach up to her thigh and soak the drops of clean nectar.

Her legs go over my defined shoulders. She has an abdomen that is soft and muscular at the same time. I place my hand over it because I think it’s precious.

But I pummel her mechanically, with the emotionless intention to bust her guts.

She couldn’t wrap her head around this. Therefore the anguish.

She pleaded to the psychopath in my eyes. But she has to learn those who are most superficial go the deepest.

She is the first to recover from exhaustion because I fought and she defended. Of course, this was her strategy all along. Now she climbs and leads. She wants me to understand all her arbitrary subtleties because these reveal my capacity for surrender, to make a conscientious time investment.

Nails squeeze on my hard chest, she needed me to become exhausted.

There were many things worth discovering in the twirling, deceleration, momentum changes, distractions, spins, and flavors. Could she sense the joy in my learning?

She was at danger of being overtaken once again so she brought in the other girl. This was to test if I was man enough to hold more than one simultaneously.

There couldn’t be three females in the room so I had to become more fierce than before.

I took the goth girl and cleansed my palate on her throat. The bulging on her soft cheeks should make Ada envious of the lesbian’s mouth.

Then came the maximally pleasurable loop of knowledge, for the people that would become me, that this was being streamed to the people – all those scattered inflection points I purchased by forsaking my own youth to the old man. With this act, I was disturbing many patterns, raising the overall frequency nearer to the fantasy in this room.

I took Ada by the neck one last time and stared into her soul. I could read her thought:

“How could you be so perfect? Like Adonis but with the mind of Athena?”

I wasn’t sure if she deserved it, but the final cause was warm, and I couldn’t stop from dissolving any longer.

And yet after all that, after the end of the recording, I felt like the utter void – who were these thoughts for? What could possibly be better? Is this as good as it’s going to get?

Ada lay on the bed like a cat. I couldn’t make out a hint of understanding in her green eyes.

The floor was indeed not cold. And the covers would be hers to tidy up. This too was a status symbol flaunting her treading dominion over time, like washing dishes with her own hands.

She caressed the side of the bed where I had been. Her fingers had nude nails with natural gloss. I would have called her beautiful if an inexperienced cupid suddenly appeared from the realm of stupidity and had asked me. But in my own field of vision, I saw a numb mannequin.

The karma of a fool who would expect to thrust so hard so as to break the wheel of samsara was not deserved, and yet the descent from climax was indeed that steep – leaving me undefined once again.

There was something prepared however.

There was a room in this house where I had stored many files of my past memories. A bullet-ridden range of pointers that slid on that malleable gradient of the empirical. Binary, addresses, names, classes, semantics, predictions, that became streets, faces, lovers, scars, and clouds; somewhere in the relations between these concepts perhaps something pointed to me. Only in that room could I place my brain, which was the password, and engage in that backwards self-triturating motion to perhaps find something that could touch me.

I entered the cylinder room and was immediately connected to the interface. All my past memories but an axis, no different to my arm’s reach as it dug into the laser blue frames.

This activity was the most dangerous possible. If a fool hadn’t purchased good software protection for their sense of self, it would dissolve very quickly into other kinds of people. Of course, there’s always the chance that I am the fool. But there is just something, something to my memories and to my particular understanding; to my version of Ada, that doesn’t allow me to just disintegrate into exploration of the vast realm.

That which allows me to remain closed is the money itself, after all, not everyone can save up through luck and grit to purchase this kind of secure software in this secure room, in this secure house – dreams money can buy, but it is also something more.

Things that I had not remembered began to happen.

The lighter-skinned girl with elfin ears and glittery black hair came towards me, and started jerking me while Ada stood behind without speaking, reflecting prisms of aquamarine from her golden skin.

“If you speak of your struggles, they will become a lighter burden,” the lesbian said with her little vampire teeth.

“If I do this with others that I trust, they will push the object of my intention further. But this can’t be about pushing the object.”

She pulled faster and opened her mouth, “It’s always about pushing the object.”

“All the people who detect the hard-to-fake signals aim at them, but these must be aimed at in sophisticated ways. Otherwise it is easy, like philosophizing instead of doing, like miracles that use magic instead of engineering.”

“What is the hardest to fake signal?”

“A solution to suffering.”

Had she said that? Or was it the voice thumping in my lungs?

I told her neck to rip by wishing the choker to implode but it did not happen.

She looked up at me from her knees with telepathic knowledge, “What do you mean by that? I know you are not the type that can aspire to be irrational. The only thing that hurts you in the world is relativism.”

“Sorry for wishing that. Yes. I hate the meaningless womb of bare existence, and that’s what inspires me to kick in the direction of rationality – that which I can trust to constrain my anticipation with the least degree of extraneous faith.”

“And yet you are willing to do provably irrational things given the prior distribution.”

“Yes. I won’t merge into the safe happiness.”

“Why?”

My true intention became too sinister at that point, and I knew she was complicit. That she was like a scripted video game character and that it was impossible for her not to be. The entire world knew my purpose and knew where every single one of its words was pushing me. I just had to play along and not burst into a booming laugh.

“You’re a great therapist,” I told her.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, its just… your demeanor, or way of you know, hmm, you show interest.”

Bolts of hateful lightning from the turmoil of azure frames coiled into a simple tablet in my hands. It was the science fiction from the past that I hated, the one that didn’t bother to understand itself but only used scientific-sounding terminology in unrestrained, inaccurate ways.

She stood with cum lacing her fingers and whispered in my ear, “To constrain itself with hard truth and still imagine – that is art.”

I turned the page and there was the Origin of Species, then Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, then the page of Everett’s Relative-State Formulation that Ada had last been reading when she was sitting in that school cafeteria.

Then I understood my firmest belief. My firmest belief is that good science fiction can only be written by someone who has laid foundations to their pyramid of knowledge in slave submission to real papers and encyclopedias. Allowing every statement to be digested as true genius if one bothered to climb into the author’s careful mind. That’s where the soul deserves to rest.

This pale girl with brown eyebrows started talking about her history of past instances being told she was a great therapist. This was the scene that the external compiler editor cut out because I could not hear a single word she said, only see the door behind her. This gave me faith that regardless of whatever the external compiler was, that it was improving.

Walking through it, I was in the protected cylinder room again, reminded there was no need for slow digits or for speech recognition even – for those good old LSTMs that solved the vanishing gradient problem and freed our hands to become the personal assistants they were meant to be.

I had a perfectly competent understanding of how the place functioned. I was in a room, and as soon as I entered the room the simulation began. I didn’t actually have frames and hands to press the options. It was all much more directly generated. In other words, optogenetic stimulation that resurrected the particular neural patterns coding for an approximate memory. Similarly, images could be traced directly in my visual cortex to be integrated into my complex self model which is distributed in a wider grain of spacetime.

I even know that the image generator was trained on past aesthetic preferences. I could make it more “accurate” by letting it cross-reference data from “others” but I like my setting to be as pure to “me” as possible.

And ironically, in order for the experience to be digestible, it was actually not a fast, ethereal thing. I could scroll with thought alone, but I could also think myself into the selection with fingers and touchboards. These became so convincing that once I selected that option, the only way to get out was by using them.

“Can I see what you have there?”

It was Ada.

I went blind against the text, images, and sounds I was experiencing. Better design of classes in the software was needed to keep her out. But it was too late now.

“No. Sorry. I cringe very quickly at my past self.”

“Good, that means you are evolving.”

She synced with me by placing her hands on my shoulder and torso, then laying her head on my chest.

“I am not here to entertain you the way you want me to entertain you. I am here to entertain myself until you realize that you are entertained.”

She read that thought.

It was the cached thought she was not supposed to read: “I am God!”

This thought wouldn’t reach verbal expression until I had graciously and creatively dodged all the arrows shot at me by my most trained and hardened soldier of conscientiousness. After I had worked so hard that I wished nothing but murder, and yet restrained myself with a kind smile. It was at the end of that summit that I had planned, through my own free will, to allow myself to be cleaved through the chest by my most trusted protector. Then I would explode into units so small that they may be considered epiphenomena, and when these all swirled into the vortex sown to the center of the mandala by some critical annulation of my membrane – and refashioned me as an awakened being at the center of the universe, the center which was also the beginning toward knowledge – and all of this by some appropriately weighted metric, then and only then, will I have purchased a sharp tongue.

“It is not about how far you get, but about how quickly you get there.” Her delineated eyebrows dissing me. Irises with radii that threatened contempt. Her fingers typed like little thunderbolts. “Everyone gets to the same place given enough time.” Her eyes moved quickly through my history – a simulation inside of a simulation.

I tried to distract her before she unraveled all my layers,

“Ada,”

She ignored me because I spoke quietly.

I shouted the name Ada so that it may reverberate into her tailbone.

But she was too entranced.

“I ask you for the third time: Why?”

I am failing the Turing test. Why couldn’t she just come out and say it? The world is modeling itself through me and that is the only responsibility that frames my bones in the pits of recursion.

“Because true loneliness is worse than imagining the company of nothingness.”

We scrolled through many people like me, ideas who were not meant to exist because their imperfections annoyed me. Ada continued to seriously analyze them, frying her perception of me with these made up people that I no longer identified with. They confused me, until I no longer understood what was real. All the while, her glassy corneas peeled to the light inside the light. Relentless, the speed of her reading was equivalent to there being no medium to slow her eyes, no dense medium we call text. My non-existent heart sunk even deeper. And I felt the irrefutable need to exist – to do something. They all converge into me, I thought, then I took her by the hair and kissed her. I kissed her, though all I truly wanted was to kill her… to destroy her in such a way that no memory trace remains, long-term or short-term. To terminate the logic of causality itself. –And with that bitter hatred, I kissed her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the paintings on the hospital room were real… If only the cubists had seen the true nature of mind… They were phallic monstrosities gouging dog eyes into anuses and twisting into retorted, boneless women. The live paintings were GANs trained on the imagery of the internet after neural meshes became common, therefore they were paintings of our collective mind.*
*Ironically/non-ironically, the original link led to you witnessing images that were actually disgusting. Tumblr has placed a ban on NSFW, so now you see only the more aesthetically sensible images.
I did not use many references external to what mind had already digested so that it could be as creative as possible – a generation of memory. I will not draw partially arbitrary bounds around influences except for the relevant inspiring music I am temporally thankful for using:
FKA Twigs – Two Weeks
Lorn – Acid Rain
Thrice – Red Sky
Grimes – We Appreciate Power
Rihanna – Diamonds
Delta Heavy – White Flag
Kanye West – Hell of A Life
Grimes – Flesh without Blood/Life in the Vivid Dream
NICO Touches the Walls – Broken Youth