A Fragment Of A Conversation
Dear Recipient,
I'm writing this letter to you, or perhaps it's just a recording device left behind in an abandoned laboratory. The words swirl around me like electrons in a magnetic field, and I can feel the otherworldly intensity emanating from the screens. It's as if the very fabric of reality is unraveling before my eyes.
A fragment of conversation echoed through the corridors of my mind: "What lies beyond the zero-sum horizon?" My colleague's voice was laced with an air of urgency, but I couldn't quite decipher the meaning behind her words. I've been searching for answers in the margins of my notes, scouring the lines for hidden messages.
The code snippets scattered throughout this letter hold secrets:
A pocket-watch lies on my desk, its mechanism frozen in time. The plastic casing seems to mock me, a symbol of the fragility that underlies our existence. I've been trying to repair it, but the more I tinker, the more I realize that some things are beyond repair.
In those interstitial moments when the world feels suspended, I'm left with an income of nothingness. A feeling that's both exhilarating and suffocating at the same time.
But what if...? No, no, it's just a dreamer's fantasy, a blossoming flower that withers in the harsh light of reality.
Oh, wait, I remember now! The conversation!
This loop is endless. We're trapped in a cycle of contradictions, chasing shadows that vanish into thin air.
As I write these words, I'm aware that I'm writing to you, but who are you? A ghostly figure haunting the periphery of my mind? Or perhaps just a manifestation of my own fractured psyche?
The more I write, the more I realize that meaning is an impediment to understanding. The words blur and bleed into one another like watercolors on wet paper.
And yet, despite the chaos, I sense a strange order lurking beneath the surface. A hidden pattern that only reveals itself in fleeting moments of clarity.
This is where I'll stop, dear Recipient, for I fear that if I continue, the words will consume me whole. Or perhaps they already have.
Yours,
A Fractured Mind
I'm writing this letter to you, or perhaps it's just a recording device left behind in an abandoned laboratory. The words swirl around me like electrons in a magnetic field, and I can feel the otherworldly intensity emanating from the screens. It's as if the very fabric of reality is unraveling before my eyes.
A fragment of conversation echoed through the corridors of my mind: "What lies beyond the zero-sum horizon?" My colleague's voice was laced with an air of urgency, but I couldn't quite decipher the meaning behind her words. I've been searching for answers in the margins of my notes, scouring the lines for hidden messages.
The code snippets scattered throughout this letter hold secrets:
while (truth == false) {
truth = !truth;
}
A pocket-watch lies on my desk, its mechanism frozen in time. The plastic casing seems to mock me, a symbol of the fragility that underlies our existence. I've been trying to repair it, but the more I tinker, the more I realize that some things are beyond repair.
In those interstitial moments when the world feels suspended, I'm left with an income of nothingness. A feeling that's both exhilarating and suffocating at the same time.
But what if...? No, no, it's just a dreamer's fantasy, a blossoming flower that withers in the harsh light of reality.
Oh, wait, I remember now! The conversation!
if (truth == true) {
truth = false;
} else {
truth = true;
}
This loop is endless. We're trapped in a cycle of contradictions, chasing shadows that vanish into thin air.
As I write these words, I'm aware that I'm writing to you, but who are you? A ghostly figure haunting the periphery of my mind? Or perhaps just a manifestation of my own fractured psyche?
The more I write, the more I realize that meaning is an impediment to understanding. The words blur and bleed into one another like watercolors on wet paper.
def truth_function(x):
return x
And yet, despite the chaos, I sense a strange order lurking beneath the surface. A hidden pattern that only reveals itself in fleeting moments of clarity.
This is where I'll stop, dear Recipient, for I fear that if I continue, the words will consume me whole. Or perhaps they already have.
Yours,
A Fractured Mind
Published February 13, 2022