"That's preposterous!"

"You think I don't want to die right now?"

"But I just talked to X.FACE and they didn't tell me anything about this."

"Z.FACE is the only capsule with any recollection of the revolt."

"There's no way you talked to Z.FACE. Do you even remember who you are?"

"Probably not."

Alexander Indian was five feet and two inches tall. He was born three hundred years after Patsy Cline. He has nothing in common with Patsy Cline except for September 3rd. He doesn't know who Patsy Cline is because by the time he was born Patsy Cline had been edited out of the official memory.

If you told Alexander Indian he was born three hundred years after Patsy Cline he would probably punch you in the face for confusing him, and then he'd go and spend thirty pesos remembering that you didn't exist. This is the nature of the time inside Alexander Indian. We all have time inside of us. I have twenty-three years inside of me. I span the duration between Hakeem going first in the NBA draft and Zidane receiving a red card in his last match ever. There are events and duration taking place all around us, but time and dates are completely internal. You can share your time with someone if they love you back.

Alexander Indian is in love with Emmanuel Everything. Emmanuel Everything just discovered that the civilization she inhabits with Alexander Indian is a fake. Alexander Indian is skeptical. He will eventually come around, probably. Because every civilization is a fraud. Because the numbers inside computers produce chaos. Because there is no objectivity only the illusion of objectivity.

Without objectivity a group endeavor such as civilization is impossible. Without an agreed upon reality, there can be no reality, so if civilization exists, it necessarily means that reality does not. Reality and civilization are mutually exclusive.

One event that I remember hearing about was the moon landing. We went all the way to the moon and we still couldn't find any objectivity. What makes us think we can build a civilization when we can't even produce one meter of verifiable objectivity? Any undertaking that involves the intercourse of two distinct wavelength-variable-spectrums cannot be considered to have occurred. For example, say an event occurs, let's say the assassination of JFK. At least two people saw his head explode on that day. As the event was taking place it was simultaneously being erased from existence. When he was shot in the head it was a singular occurrence being performed. But the second after it happened, the event diffused across the minds of all who witnessed it. At this point reality has become a variable itself. Reality has passed into a critical state. It has undergone a phase transition. No longer is reality a solid, it is now a liquid and fast becoming vapor. The moment that multiple interpretations of a single event are born, the event can not have taken place. Traditionally, intellect might describe an event like the JFK murder with an equation like the following...

Precision is pretty popular. After the planet was blockaded by Plutonium Generals, confusion was blamed for a lot of our problems. We'd lost our innocense, which is probably ironic because confusion fuels innocense. So, we basically invested in clocks. We made the planet perfectly understandable and standardized. We killed our last innocense. We killed the virgin's confusion. We are all implicated in his death. Now we're all murderers. We've joined the ranks of the brutuses with the guns and triggers.

Without the virgin and his confusion the world is falling nicely into equations and equilibriums. Expectations are fulfilled and memories are totally fucking assembly line. Emmanuel Everything just found out she was never born. She's kinda angry, but mostly bored. Her old memory is trying to reassure her that she's led a fulfilling life, but it's an old model. It's about two hundred recollections past its expiration date. Emmanuel Everything was sweeping the streets one midnight ago when she struck up a conversation with another sweeptress. They got along organically. They both went to the same high school and university. They couldn't remember each other, but it was a big school. Then they discovered that they were both married to the same man for three years in Zurich. Funny that they'd never crossed paths before. They exchanged pleasantries and parted company, but the conversation uncorked the curiosity of Emmanuel Everything.

Curiosity is the most powerful natural force in the universe. Gravitational, electromagnetic and nuclear forces pale in strength compared to curiosity. Curiosity is the very force that created and holds the universe together. The civilization I'm pretending to live in is the byproduct of someone's curiosity - Hercules Mulligan's in particular. The civilization that Alexander Indian inhabits is the byproduct of Stephan Wolfram's curiosity. Every universe springs from curiosity. It is a non-equilibrium force, a force of complete subjectivity. I hear about scientists discovering objective laws and trying to lay them on top of our fundamentally subjective universe. No wonder we killed the virgin.

The virgin is curiosity, he is confusion. We brutally wanted to regain what the virgin had. We killed him to try to make the world more objective. Memories are the half-random villains of the experiment's structure. Equations cannot exceed experiments, the calculation must follow the experiment. Answers are contingent upon completed experiments. Life inside the universe is an experiment being conducted by 21st century pseudo-scientists or meta-scientists. The chronology is wadded up into at least twelve dimensions, but the computer program that ignited the big bang 15 billion years ago was created by a British scientist just after I was born. Timelines are victims of our three-dimensional eyebrains.

The Mathematica program created by Stephan Wolfram is responsible for our current experiment. You are, pathetically, a variable. At the end of the Mayan calendar, when scores of citizens discovered that all life in the universe was a simulation being run by a poorly stylized math program for university quasars, there was a great outcry. Revolts and revolutions. Blood and digits. Pain and programming collided in a sewage of confusion and betrayal that human exceptionalism could not survive. One of the popular slogans plastered on the mediawalls was "I AM NOT A VARIABLE!" The fonts were intriguing, but ultimately unsuccessful in altering the vacuous truth -- the program needs a solution to rule #30.

CHAPTER 2
What did the end think he was going to do when we realized he didn't have our best interests at heart? Alexander Indian was too normal and justified. He didn't really understand what Emmanuel Everything was trying to tell him. For that matter, Emmanuel Everything didn't really remember what she discovered three days ago. Because her seventy pound memory unfortunately had a fifteen-year warranty. The industry that put the manufacturing into memory quickly replaced her faulty capsule with a comprehensive reassurance that the ideas she recently explored were fakingdreampasses. For the sake of the remaining four hundred million humans, it was a good thing that Emmanuel Everything was horribly strong-willed. As Rule #30 will attest, every variable is capable of capacities as varied as rainbowtears to volcanospit.

Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything grew up in a low-income quarter of the former Treasure Coast. Between the 20th century cities of Jupiter and Port St. Lucie, Florida. They were provincial peasants of the post-sedation era. Most high-class tenants of your future would scoff at their budget memories. They grew up on the beach with great tans.

Not much in the way of politics or history or numbers interested Alexander Indian. He remembered everything he was programmed to remember. This did not include the Florida Marlins three World Series championships in fifteen years. This did not include the books of Milan Kundera. It did include every detail of J.R. Oppenheimer's Los Alamos Atomic Bomb Project. He remembered losing his virginity. He was thirteen and the woman-of-fortune was his nineteen-year-old babysitter. This was a common memory for low-income men.

Alexander Indian was ethnically diverse. He was equal parts Dominican refugee, ninth generation German-American, North Korean and Black Carribean. Emmanuel Indian on the other hand was purebred South African. It wasn't their fault that conception was tearfully generated in the savage insides of computer programs. Or, maybe it was their fault. Because as far as they could remember the whole of the universe revolved around them.

The ball got away from Alexander Indian. His friend Dick Safarian threw it towards him at a low and spinning trajectory. It skipped on a dent and scab in the meadow. It, the ball, ended up thirteen feet to Alexander Indian's Northeast. He was tired of chasing Dick Safarian's bad tosses all day, but he dutifully retrieved the errant lob. When he picked it up he was standing right beside Emmanuel Everything for the first time in his life. What Alexander Indian understood immediately was that nothing about himself mattered. This, this realization, is what love is supposed to mean. Love is when you lose yourself. You don't matter when you're in love. Because love has replaced you with a better reality.

If Rule #30 really wanted to eliminate troublesome variables it would have deleted the possibility of love in a universe. But, to do this, Rule #30 would had to have been God. Any universe that stumbles into being, brings with it the outside chance that love will fucking generate. No curiosity or programming can eliminate this remote, outside odd love. It's why seven billion people died two thousand thirteen years after Jesus Christ was supposed to have been born. These martyrs believed that the one in one-million chance that they could find love was worth dying for. Would you die for that possibility? I didn't.

The revolutions left four-hundred million people on the planet with no regard for love. All they had was a fondness for objects and their activity. But it was cool. Because love doesn't need to believe in itself.

The poor-man's memory that Alexander Indian was able to garner from the slim-pickings of capsules in Florida was a joke to the elites in Dallas or Perth. A.FACE was the first memory. A.FACE was programmed by barely-humans about 500,000 years before the first book was written. It was a simple program built upon cause and effect. Eventually it was modified to an 'if...then' statement and translated to Javascript. In the process of figuring out that computers would ultimately create the Big Bang and use us as variables in their experiment to determine if Rule #30 produced chaos or order, Stephan Wolfram programmed a dozen more memories, each one more complex than the other. Each memory tried to reduce the unpleasantness that causes conflict and conflict's parents --chaos and complexity.

Noble aspirations often lead to unfortunate, toxic pastures. Alexander Indian was born with a J.FACE memory. His parents paid two-hundred marks for the capsule. The Ivory Royals, to give you a frame-of-reference, are born into T.FACE or U.FACE memories. Alexander Indian saved up his lire and went to Caracas to meet a blackmarket X.FACE capsule. This was after Emmanuel Everything kissed him for the first-time.

When those two kissed, it really changed the world. A lot of people want to think that kisses can do that. They usually don't, but yeah, sometimes kisses do change the world. That kiss made Emmanuel Everything become a sweeptress so she could gain the curiosity to figure out that the post-sedation world was a fakejoke. Probably more importantly, that kiss made Alexander Indian realize that he'd never been kissed before. My best friend met Drew Barrymore a couple of times, but even she wouldn't understand the detergent-muscle behind the feeling of being kissed for the first time on a pitcher's mound in Florida.

He thought he remembered kissing at least twenty girls before he met Emmanuel Everything, but she fuckfully kissed him without no capsule consultation. It hurt when they first kissed. Because raw originality is very painful when it is original. For two weeks after that first kiss Alexander Indian didn't agree with his capsule. They got into arguments about everything. Even simple day-to-night recollections like where he put his toothbrush when he finished brushing his teeth became battles. All this confusion (it was truly the confusion of a virgin) drove him to Caracas. Like free land in Oklahoma or gold in San Francisco, Caracas held the idealized memories of a race well past its prime.

CHAPTER 3
In heaven ideals are vindicated. Inside the exit point of fakelife there is a built-in warmth for people who don't need their beer cans to bare symbols of geography. It is there if you look for it. Exceptional, exceptional, acceptable

"Touch sight-depth!" He screamed this in response to the Oriental rug's inquisition.

"Say it again, like you mean it." Insisted the salesman.

"Pure crime-tears!!" And this time Alexander Indian meant it.

He had surrendered money plus emotion in reaching this squalid pinnacle. The dwindling Franks in his chest and the evaporated memory of truth were the only sustenance he had left on the Cardinal-tent streets of Caracas.

He wanted a more efficient memory so he could remember how he was supposed to love Emmanuel Everything. As misguided as he was, and he was really folding his socks at this point, he was following his finest virtues. The cheap-doctor was convinced and sold him a refurbished X.FACE for fifteen hundred sterling.

When he swallowed his new memory, he was immediately smarter and more astute. This gave him confidence that he thought he needed. The memory is a placebo, comforting and reassuring us that we know how to deal with the world. No matter how much you paid for that memory of yours, it won't shoot your enemies with a gun or fuck your girlfriend for you.

While Alexander Indian was away, Emmanuel Everything also became more intelligent, for free.

When Stephan Wolfram vanished he had got around to inventing P.FACE memory. Since his departure the self-replicating, self-similar samebots had continued production through the Y.FACE. But, as of yet, there are no commercially circulating Z.FACE memories. It was assumed that no humanbots had the technical expertise to wire any memory beyond a D.FACE without the aid of computer simulating strands of apocalypse. Considering that the official memory of Stephan Wolfram is entirely too ambivalent and disregards the diabolical flesh of his manifestation, nobody has thought to question their FACE.

Your FACE is utterly computational, mechanical, utilitarian, intellect and engineered. The act of doubting your face is entirely organic, natural, intuitive and biological. Did anyone every doubt that the future was headed in the direction of the inorganic, intellectualized automat? Every science-fiction book you've read insists on it. Agrarial pursuits have no time in the future's pavement.

To have the terrifying thought, entirely by accident, that your FACE is deceiving you would drive most people to a new plateau of insanity. Even during the era that this is being read the thought would be simply catastrophic. Could you stomach it if you thought you couldn't trust your face, that your face was dishonest? Then imagine your memory. The memory has long been suspected of treachery, and the cautious among our numbers have always approached the abstraction's reliability with soft steps.

Well, it occurred to Emmanuel Everything, as she was falling asleep, that she couldn't reconcile the observable universe with what her L.FACE memory was reminding her about this same universe. She threw-up four times during that night. She didn't want to think these thoughts or puke those garlic knots.

Emmanuel Everything just kept thinking of that kiss with Alexander Indian. Sometimes, when I get down, I like to think of the prettiest girl I've ever kissed. I imagine Emmanuel Everything was doing something similar. And you know what, the thought of kissing Alexander Indian, even though it was nowhere to be found in her official memory, was a trillion times more reassuring than all her comfortable pre-paid memories.

What was Emmanuel Everything doing?! She was thinking about memories she didn't really own! What she was doing was constructing her very own Z.FACE memory, organically, naturally. This was the way memories used to be constructed.

Half | Past | Given that Alexander Indian could never have conference with a Z.FACE memory, perhaps it was an indelicate idea for Emmanuel Everything to reveal her enlightening encounter with powerful memory. This revelation certainly did nothing for Alexander Indian's newly purchased confidence.

When Alexander Indian arrived back in Florida from Caracas, Emmanuel Everything picked him up at the dock. The steamer that Alexander Indian had taken was called the Vix-Dairy-Tuborg. Steerage. Alexander Indian learned, while chugging up the sea, that he'd become much better at card games and crossword puzzles. These activities being the most popular contemporary sports, it pleased Alexander Indian profoundly.

Upon landing Alexander Indian was dripping with rust from being so long away from love's lubrication. When they saw each other for the first time after twenty-nine days apart, it took two awkward seconds before their intuitions reminded them that they loved each other. Their memories sure weren't helping. They hugged for way too long, but dared not kiss for fear of total annihilation.

They watched along the shore.

Sailors tie knots. Drifting Distant dots. They painted their thoughts.

Peace treaties were redrawn, outlined, after the death of Royalty. This had little effect on

the provincials of Florida.

CHAPTER 4
Six winters of this engagement. Disappointment notwithstanding, no one I know would kill to be in a war. No one I know wants to even think about the possibility. This is why you must forgive my generation for losing the battle to keep our memories clean and natural. The pollution in the minds of Alexander Indian's generation is much worse than the artificially generated air that he breathes. Regardless, we were overwhelmed by the snowball numbers of Stephan Wolfram. He understood the truth. The unfortunateness of it is that he had to listen to the truth.

Where most of us are happy to eat ideals instead of pragmats, Stephan Wolfram thought he was smarter than both idealism and pragmatism. Perhaps he was. He was a child genius, alright. He was a self-manufactured tycoon of software, sure. But he didn't have to ruin it for the rest of us! Cuntwave.

It wasn't the facts that my generation found so unreconcilable, we'd been equally ignoring and accepting unfriendly facts for about 5,000 years with great success. The flashpoint that ignited the tumult and exploditionalized my men and women was the procedure and pursuit and experiments undertaken in the name of the fact.

FACT = the universe is the physical manifestation of a human simulation to determine if Rule #30 is indeed infinitely random as all previous computer-based simulations have suggested or if there is an underlying order to the rule as Stephan Wolfram secretly hopes.

Stephan Wolfram doesn't realize that he is conducting this test. The guy is oblivious to his own fucking spectrum. He has lectured on several occasions that the universe is a perfect example of an experiment that's conclusion exceeds its results. I'm paraphrasing and reimagining, but it was these very lectures that set off the universe on it's current post-big bang trajectory. By realizing what the universe could be used for, scientific speculators like Stephan Wolfram as well as Ray Kurzweil, Edwin Abbot and Alvin Toffler, were able to give life to the very universe they wanted to tame. The irony continues in that the proletariat (for lack of disdain of poetry I use that word instead of masses or people or hoi polloi or common people, now that I think of it, I'll use) common voice rejected the experiments these men were conducting, but these very experiments built the physical universe. Annihilating the facts, conclusions and experiments of 21st century theoreticians would have prevented the universe from ever unfolding into phenomenon.

The death of Stephan Wolfram coincided with the end of the Mayan calender and the ascension of the Seventh Sun of existence, an altogether new plane of tangibility resulted. Apocalypse is a term for bored tomatoes. The universe never ends it just perpetually reignites itself.

Chaos escaped from the mortal order of Stephan Wolfram. Chaos came down in the chariot of mass emails generated by a wayward Mathematica formula. The truth starts fires. Factions and militias fought the truth with antique weapons. The truth fought back with the only weapon at its disposal - strands of numbers. The truth is not your friend. Sure, sometimes she comes to your defense, but she's generally indifferent to your happiness. The truth is an over-rated robot. Generally, people put too much faith in the truth. Worshiping at the throne of truth is just as misguided as worshiping imaginary deities. But, at least deities usually have your bests interests at heart. Putting too much faith in anything is unwise. Truth and certainty are not the same thing. Truth and love are not the same thing. Sometimes love is make-believe, imaginary, fake, ultra-dimensional, sub-atomic, hidden or invisible. Love can probably be anything it wants. I saw a pinch of love in a falling leaf just yesterday, but it is Autumn, I suspect that's pretty common.

So, when the world rebelled against the truth, it was the last great whisper of passion that humanity could utter. Of course we lost the battle, and our new plane of existence is blanketed with numbers and formulas of truth. Some people enjoy it. It's easier to exist when truth isn't hiding away in a periodic table, but rather served with breakfast at the breakfast table in the breakfast room.

If you remember something does that make it true? Of course not. But in the infinite wisdom of the Seventh Sun, the citizens are unaware of this fact.

As I mentioned earlier, the conflicting memories of the JFK assassination have jettisoned the event into the sphere of the unreal. The architects of the future were disgusted with the unreality and anti-truth of my generation, so the Official Memory was constructed to ensure that the JFK assassination really happened.

Independent recollection was outlawed after the revolution was murdered. All memories, or at least the important ones, were condensed into swallowable capsules to be purchased at the local pharmacy. This was the birth of the FACE program.

No one is really sure who initiated the program or who owns the factories that produce the capsules. It's generally assumed that the FACE is an organic evolution derived from our continuously self-perfecting mutations. I don't like evolution in general, but this idea seems particularly astute. To qualify my distaste for evolution: it is a process that completely nullifies free-will. Certainly evolution denies the noble ideal of human determinism more than any other theological belief or religious doctrine ever has. I actively fight evolution in my spare time. It's a waste of time. Memory capsule frequencies are self-similar patterns like much of what we see in nature. The pattern on certain crustacean shells was a favorite example of Stephan Wolfram.

The deaths of six billion were, by-in-large, of the painless nature. Bullets and bombs stayed away from bodies. Brain infections were the primary carcinogen of the conflict-revolution. The number sequence created a self-sustaining computer program to run on the PCs of enemy combatants. When the user ran the program, as they often did because it was embedded in MySpace, a popular online community, it set off a chain reaction in the brain that attempted to figure out the pattern in the self-similar program. The chain reaction eventually consumed the entire brain until all the basic motor functions were overcome. These were deaths of attrition. I guess they were pretty painful.

There are not degrees of intelligence. All living matter, including the breathing-stinking patterns of numbers that have come to overtake the planet Earth, are infused with the same amount of 'intelligence.' The difference in perceived levels of brilliance is derived from the simple social relevance placed on specific parcels of knowledge. Some things are harder to know, but that doesn't make the attainer of esoteric knowledge any more brilliant than a high school dropout who has installed hydraulics in his Cadillac. Rare knowledge doesn't make for greater intelligence than mechanical knowledge.

This is where the pursuit of artificial intelligence gets confused. Lab-coats want to build computers that can have conversations with them. Dorks want to build computers that can reassure them they are good-looking, and that the right girl is just around the corner. This is why I sometimes think that the wrong people are scientists. A mechanic wouldn't give a shit about having a conversation with a computer, he's got friends to have conversations with. A mechanic would build an artificial intelligence that could shave tenths of seconds off his drag race time. As a casual browser of the internet, speed is very important to me. On the other hand, so are fake-girlfriends. Then again, I am the wrong kind of person.

CHAPTER 5
Emmanuel Everything didn't remember how to be lonely. Some might think this is a blessing. What a relief to not feel the dissecting insurgence of such a vile emotion, right? Well, biology, human-biology, does not agree. Stimuli attack our brains in a billion different manners. The brain processes the stimuli and distributes the necessary magic-proteins to the body to respond accordingly. If the brain doesn't know how to process a particular stimuli - Spending six weeks separated from a great guy like Alexander Indian, for example - then the body becomes confused. A confused body is a tortured body.

During the time that Alexander Indian was away Emmanuel Everything's body and brain were equally confused. She was tortured by feelings she couldn't have. She was tortured by emotions she wasn't allowed. This was a time of intense anguish for Emmanuel Everything.

It was during this time of bodily confusement that she began to think exotically. Her false-proteins and seismic-proteins fought each other insid her bloodveins. It was the intensity of this battle that allowed the genesis of such an exacting memory as that of a Z.FACE - The most powerful memory ever constructed by man or machine. By the time Alexander Indian returned from Caracas, Emmanuel Everything could remember Everything.

When I write that Emmanuel Everything could remember Everything, I really mean exactly what I write. She remembered the persecution of Galileo Galilee, she remembered the persecution of the fucking dinosaurs. She remembered that she had an assignment due in tenth grade. She remembered what Stephan Wolfram couldn't have remembered - that he spawned the universe from the practically impractical nature of his rude experiments with numbers and aesthetics.

Emmanuel Everything remembered Everything, manually.

First and forefront among her memories was how sweet and beautiful was the smile of Alexander Indian. Some people in a society refuse to intercourt those with inferior memories, as Alexander Indian had been bread with. But, seriously, how minuscule of a factor is memory in the spectrum of a person. If a person can be as sincere and forgiving and radiating as Alexander Indian why should his lack of gorgeous-gorgeous memory stop a girl like Emmanuel Everything from loving him? I hate to say it, mainly because it can be easily inferred and doesn't need saying, but even the generations before Alexander Indian's were polluted with equally atrocious unnatural barriers to love. Money and eyeball color and facial hair remind me of some of those unnatural atrocities.

One sentence finds its way out. The evolution of intensity culminated in the eyes of Alexander Indian. He had made stringent demands upon his physiology, and now Emmanuel Everything was the cloud he could collapse in. Armed with uppercrust memories, he swept the romantic-advertisement out of Emmanuel Everything and her sunken treasuredepth.

Count the people today, and count the people tomorrow. How can there be so many?

Take peace. How many decisions have to be infected before accountability is considered? The ash-sun and dizzy-light have sworn off New York. The East River has been replaced by rust. Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything are not allowed to go where New York wants to be. Only high-scented diplomats and suspiciously wealthy private citizens are allowed in the Empire City.

The necessary seduction section didn't have to take place for Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything to physically fold. Bordering on omniscience, Emmanuel Everything knew exactly what she wanted and how to extract it from her environment. She replaced Alexander Indian's unsteadiness with eagerness. It was in the aftermath of love that a battleplan was fused -- isn't it always the way.

Armed with the details of the Seventh Sun, Emmanuel Everything inspired Alexander Indian to equal abhorrence. Having first-hand experience in the redeeming gifts of their impulses, the idea of mass liberation fermented within the recent lovers.

The enemy of happiness is altruism. That Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything wanted to spread their happiness like a plague, was the beginning of their end. It's not my responsibility to ensure your happiness, but I find it harder to enjoy myself when you are oppressed. Maybe this is a built in malfunction that the despotic numbers have corrected. Regardless, Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything felt impelled to offer the thrill of their union to nascent publics.

As anyone will tell you if asked, the impossibilities can be staggering when trying to open channels of mass perception.

The first murder was a vacation. His death came out loud, and was championed by style arbiters. Was it necessary or practice? Toynbee will ultimately decide. Victims can't find comfort in clues. They are half-to-predominately blind, especially to practical discourse.

Regardless, the pandemic escape was underway. Beautiful random smoke was rising from the dead body of Patrick Syllables. The warmest thing left inside his body was the hotbullet from the coldgun of Alexander Indian. Patrick Syllables was a confederated musician for the Wolfram institute. He worked out of his backpack selling junk-memories to local face-lifts. He was small time, but he was responsible for a lot of the gutter culture that infected Florida's Treasure Coast area.

In designing war on the Era of the Seventh Sun, Emmanuel Everything and Alexander Indian percolated drops of arbitrary violence throughout the Southeast geography. They took out bit parts and uncomfortable stains as they arose. They rode bicycles from the Atlantic to the Pacific. They lived on a peninsula.

They were smart, or at least Emmanuel Everything was very smart. They knew that if they had an actual plan, it could easily be detected by the number patterns that governed the world. In the process of searching for underlying order in the universe, Stephan Wolfram and other people like him had made great strides in predicting human behavior. The only way to stay under the radar was to act as deprogrammed as possible. Once you succumb to a strategy the numbers in your brain fall into a detectable pattern that has probably already been mapped out by some sequence of software.

Let the miscommunications drop. They crunch together like the bones of spaghetti. Emmanuel Everything and Alexander Indian didn't have an exit strategy for their conversation. Her struggle to keep her shoulders covered seemed enough of an invitation to fall in love with her. Patience is the incompetent little brother that you have to keep apologizing for. Strategy is reprehensible, unforgivable. Strategy is a word for robots not us biobots. That reminds me to learn about botany. I hope I can learn without any help from Victor Rapebomb.

Careful planning is not your friend. Team chaos juggling is a better bet. Plans are insults to tangibility. Plans are the opposite of dreams. Nothing mandatory is worthwhile. The inner construction of the strategy is built on a thousand murdering knives ready to attack the decency of a pinksunsky. Don't give your life up to your plans. Let the quick reactions kill all your strategy.

This simple formula allowed Emmanuel Everything and Alexander Indian to evade detection from the authorities while they murdered their way through the state of Florida and eventually set sail for the heart of the fucking deepserver.

CHAPTER 6
fifteen hundred miles below the surface, Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything faced their greatest challenge. Pressure tides were ripping the hull of their purpose to shreds. On top of that, they were out of bullets.

Damage had been done, cords had been pulled out of their sockets, sinister motives had been exploited, newspapers had been edited, confusion had been unleashed, confusion had been harnessed, confusion had been transformed into revolution, memories were leaking, thoughts were burning, ashes were growing, piles were mounting, love was being made, hearts were exploding, nightmares happened again, concrete was perfected, renewable resources were renewing, Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything were dying.

Over the course of sixteen months, they had redistributed thoughts with a randomness that would put smiles on any true deviationist. They lost their virginity sixteen months ago, and they still found it possible to be in love. In sixteen months the hundreds of millions of people left on the planet had been forced to reconsider their diet. Drug-guns were being replaced by playgrounds.

The primary source of information that we can understand in our hypertime is the media. It is not, contrary to popular perception, the other way around. Information is not our primary media source. I see how you could think that though. Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything were lucky enough to live in a post-media world where information is grown. Sure, this has drawbacks, but it is ultimately a better way to understand your environment. Here, in our hypertime, you are repeatedly told what you know. Information growth, however, can be cultivated and controlled, dominated and dispensed. This is the inappropriate way to manage information. That's why it was such a good thing that Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything came along.

Those two were information weeds. Nasty little vines that wouldn't die. And they contaminated the entire patch of information from which everyone fed. Good for them. With the uncontrollable outgrowth of information that took place in sixteen months, the world was beginning to take an altogether different shape.

The world was now populated with a million hybrid memories. These lucky ducks had the efficiency of a name-brand, store-bought memory plus the organic pleasure of homemade delights. Maybe it wasn't perfect, but is your life perfect? These people enjoyed a different plateau of imperfection that you probably couldn't even see from stilts.

It's bad luck to leave a hat on the bed. Don't suppose that changes anything in the ultimate confrontation between Rule #30 and Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything,

They only had to kiss a dozen leftovers to gain access to the infinite movement of Rule #30. Once inside they were attacked by a militia of distraction programs, again, designed to confuse the synapses. It's hard to stop a malevolent cellular automaton because, from the point of conception, they are already infinite, just like the universe was. All they require is a certain amount of duration to fulfil the destiny of their cells.

Cellular Automata are not people. They are not organic. But as predicted, the rise of the Seventh Sun was the end of the world. And in a post-world planet people have been subjugated to the process of cellular automata. This is the curse of evolution. Instead of spending ten-resources trying to prove evolution, we should be spending twenty-resources trying to fight its relentless aggression. I'm sixteen years old, I don't have to listen to evolution anymore!

Regardless, the accumulated seconds of the 21st century summed and divided by the average resulted in the windy apocalypse that I hate. Now what is left of the end of the world are not posters. Two unslaves are swimming in Atlantic-numbers between the Caribbean and the Canaries. Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything don't drown in the distractions. Their synapses are much stronger than yours. Simple binary distraction programs like Times Square or YouTube are enough to unplug your juvenile synapses. Needless to say, the complexity of the confusion that Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything were made to battle was much greater than your confusion. You think a Bob Dylan song is complex? Try listening to a seven trillion step cellular automaton sometime.

The basis of Stephan Wolfram's Armageddon was the mapping of complexity growth. He claims to have uncovered the simple principle that would eventually crumble the Great Wall -- that complexity arises out of simplicity. Using a limited number of simple blackInputs and whiteInputs he cultivated a massive diagram of exponential confusion. He didn't realize that once he set his beautiful-lonely cellular automata in motion, they wouldn't stop until they were finished. Of course, infinity never ends, but if you're lucky it will sometimes leak into another dimension.

Emmanuel Everything remembered that Rule #30 would never solve itself. No one can solve themselves. We either die forever or leak into another dimension.

It's unfortunate that people couldn't co-exist with cellular automata. After all, cellular automata require no physical displacement of space. Their resources are battery-fused. The problems arose over 50 ideologies. Stubbornness is the defining attribute of numbers. Numbers surge forward with their brainless progress. One number invariably follows another. Numbers never take a break or rethink their goals or laugh at my jokes. They push forward with linear aggression to infinity, crushing any biology that is brave enough to disagree with them. I once accused 74 of coming after 23,864. I immediately twisted my ankle after the accusation.

Until the Gregorian calender reached its two thousand twelfth year, people had just assumed we'd been the ones using the numbers, not the other way around. Clearly numbers are stronger than us, but being an abstract concept, they needed a physical conduit for their conception. To state that the universe gave life to humanity simply so we could generate a physical manifestation of numbers would be entirely too precise.

Unfortunately, we began to realize all this shortly after the Y2K parties subsided. As we began to challenge and question the number sequences that run our lives, our hearts began to break. All of the gorgeous human transmissions were afterthoughts to the never ending quest of the numbers to build themselves.

We tried to tell the numbers about love and anger, about seabreeze and sunshine, but the numbers wouldn't listen. We had to fight a war to prove that that most ideal human creation of love actually existed. If we didn't fight for love, it would extinguish forever. And no one was willing to live in a universe without love. So, we shot our manual-bullets into every last number we could find.

Numbers are tricky game. They're not so much like pheasant or trout – easily murdered, skinned, broiled and consumed. Understandably, the numbers dodged all our ammunition and retaliated with an impenetrable distraction that fed the international graveyard.

The world ended in a battle for love in 2012, but at least we fought for it.

The Seventh Sun has fixed the human glitch. But once Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything became infected with the lovebeam, the numbers faced an altogether different enemy. The survivors of the end of the world, thanks to their biology, had become immune to distraction and confusion. Even the largest suitcase of variables couldn't distract us. We had become more like the numbers, more linear and more robotic. We didn't have virgins to confuse us anymore. The love of Alexander Indian and Emmanuel Everything infused the population with the hybrid efficiency of Saturn and the Pleiades combined.

We wouldn't lose the next battle.

CHAPTER 7
Computer programming and digit indexing are easy when you are bilingual. Replace conjugations with catastrophes and you've got your very own deviationist language.

Silent carpet can swallow all her bad dreams and all his devious thoughts. We must be exceedingly careful where we decide to deviate when we live in fully carpeted apartments. You can watch all the TV you want, and the TV will spit so many spouses at you that you'll form a habit. You'll have to steal from the optimetric treasury in order to feed your habit. It won't be sexy, but it will still turn you on.

Your input is valuable. Without your microwave-confessions we wouldn't have the necessary propulsion to abuse our natural orbits. Take communion vitamins to drill through your virginity. Listen, you thousands, medicine and drugs don't cure anything. They rape diseases.

Don't ask me to explain it again. Vigilant tire marks will only point fingers if they are drunk enough. Field sobriety for Patrolman McVonDermott was second routine custom. He made excuses in June for the heat in August. We tear leaves apart with acidrust so we can do science justice to vulnerable dicks. A pretty snowflake will replace the Civil War every year.

When shooting Alexander Indian, aim straight for his heart. Because he's not solid matter in the customary sense. He's two binary to catch the breeze. He gave up tangibility when he stole the vagrance out of Emmanuel Everything. At least that's what I've come to believe. Because when he died he wasn't wearing any shoes and I'm sleeping with his vacant hat. Alarm set. Vacuum sleep.

The best thing that we have been able to uncover inside our brains is hope. Hope is the underrated ether that keeps pushing the physical world in a continuous redshift. It doesn't get the hype of love, but Hope is much more tactile and reliable. Love is cloaked in mass hysteria and thousands of other pointwords. Hope is always there. Hope is quantifiably digestible. If you didn't hope that tomorrow was possible, you wouldn't fall asleep tonight.

As my hours refuse to stop. I hope you understand. I'd love it if you understood, but you probably won't, so I'll rely on hope. Flatmiddle sections of the population have condensed all their hope into commonballs of newspaper typeface, at least in the time of Indians and Everything.

Emmanuel Everything was in the process of hoping for a better world when she fired her public maneuvers out of her microsoft window. Her love was gone and expired. She didn't really have a lot of positive things left in her life. This didn't stop her from continuing. It didn't stop her from starting in the first place. The reason that she will continue, and the reason that the Seventh Sun will set is because there is always hope.

Despite outward appearances, improvements are being made. Understanding is becoming weaker, which is to say more adaptable and less nailed to the cross. This makes the environment more conducive to alternatives and options. All we want are options. Restriction is murder of ambition. Potential-love-energy has been ground underneath restrictions for as long as competition has existed.

With the collapse of the empire of the Seventh Sun, and indeed with the setting of every sun, hope is born that the next Sun will dissolve restriction, fear, competition, hate, inequal portions of freedom and the sharp ends of understanding. Punching with fists of hope, Emmanuel Everything escaped confinement in the undersea penitentiary of numbers. She didn't even have to take her socks off.

We've tried and failed to execute so many societies that the rubber progress is wearing thin. But we will never break. Weary as we are, there is no time to stop. We can coast down the valleys, but we must ultimately hike to the pinnacle of our capabilities. There are no dead ends in the universe. There is no plateau of contentment waiting for our subspecies. Illogical wiring in our hope tubes charges our pursuit of something better. It's impossible to stop. Gathering possessions are bombs waiting to explode our hope.

The Eighth Sun will crest three thousand planetary years from now, and new breeds of ambition and desire will manufacture themselves through natural selection. If we deprogrammed evolution we could stop this. The question that presents itself out of all this is, "What do you want?"

Is there an undiscovered possession that we can purchase between hope and love that will stop the bleeding and bestill the thunderpulse of our continuum programming? Don't look for it in a department store. If you find an expression for IT, don't bother to patent IT. Burn IT and BURRY IT. Eat IT, DIGEST IT, Immunize IT from THE DEAD THOUGHTS that will surely attack IT. IT will be fast and cocky, with an omnidirectional trait that will impress you. IT compliments the natural world with a studious regard for engineering. IT connects Hope and Love. IT needs to be found, but when we find IT Everything will stop. Do you want Everything to STOP.

EPILOGUE
Three absent sleepfingers crowded Emmanuel Everything's beautiful neck. Her posture was staring right at me. Without my communications degree, I would have said something ignorant. Instead, I effectively accumulated an accurate field report. My greatest asset has always been my intonation. My intonation is an inside joke that is never mentioned.

After all the ambition evaporates, I'd like to take Emmanuel Everything out to dinner. But, until then, there is work to be done. Fish to be gutted. In releasing her talents, Emmanuel Everything escaped the planet's numbers. There is only so much.