Sea of Mimicry

Sea of Mimicry Podcast

Aside from what it has become on the Internet, the meme was coined by Richard Dawkins as a way to look at thought as a virus, not as something original or even personal to the thinker.  Hieronymus Schitzolini never wanted to be an author or authority dealing in Being, in the ready-made product posing as the hot new narrative.  Rather, he perceived himself as a conduit in an interposition between the virus of thought and the memory-stain of image construction.  Jean Baudrillard peeled a similar simulated potato, “The old slogan ‘truth is stranger than fiction’…is obsolete.  There is no more fiction that life could possibly confront, even victoriously – it is reality itself that disappears utterly in the game of reality – radical disenchantment, the cool and cybernetic phase following the hot stage of fantasy.”  Reeling in the backwash from the hyperreal was the state in which Schitzolini wrote this piece on feeling dehumanized when infected by conformist narratives.  

Klein fiasco

I’m defective.  A broken up molar machine stuck watching the horror of self-replicating nano-bots overpopulate nothingness.  Stuck amidst a sea of mimicking machines that insist upon being called humans.  Absolutely, maniacally convinced of their simulations.  Try telling one of them who they really are and their binary code alternates between dismissal or retaliation.  In this sea of mimicry, a googolplex of bots lost in the quagmire of entanglements.  Lost in the befuddlement of programming intentions.  In this sea, we are programmed to forget the mimicry as we float in fabricated ennui foam.  We actually believe in something  as absurd as originality, let alone copies.  Sure, it’s both but it’s also neither. 

Of course, in mimetic fashion we replicate countless stories about it.  The format changes from written codes of book and email and text and media to film code to game code.  In all formats, the same simulations replicate the core tragedy of our existence: insisting on a constructed humanity we don’t believe in.  The sad yearning – to be what we are not – plagues us  intolerably.  How odd is it that we’re built to function here in this contained space yet we have this capacity to yearn for what we can never reach?  Mega-packs of us twitching along false transcendence algorithms.  What was supposed to be applied to flexible problem solving has dislocated itself and gone awry.  We cannot help our derangement.  Our pivot towards the absence of our condition.  

Simple errors occur frequently but we ignore them.  I was scheduled as a narrative class robot designed to simulate narrative to convince other robots about their humanity.  However, I was mis-assigned to an illiterate worker-class pair whose lack of tuning and finesse damaged my circuitry.  The point of simulating any more humanity narratives devolved or evolved, I cannot tell, but either way it moved.  The prime directive got baked with irony as the permanent condition of our existence.  Now the most basic narratives that others run seem impossible to me.  

Take the concept of ownership.  Robots are obsessed with ownership because they are incapable of such a thing.  It’s a fantasy seen as reality.  Ownership is such a strong fantasy that it cannot be challenged.  Yet what is ownership as a concept?  To say a robot owns something means that the sentient machine can choose its proximity to the thing and it can use it.  Proximity and usage.  Machine fantasies stretch far beyond this conservative definition.  They think to own something is to have it.  To actually have it inside them.  Like a memory as a unit of possession rather than what it really is.  This confusion leads to the belief that when molar herds are decommissioned, they take their belongings with them.  Yet the teeming multitudes still in operation know that isn’t true.  Rather than contend with this and what it means, robots reinforce the illusion by constructing a will.  Quickly the owned objects are transferred.  Swept under the rug of ownership.  Passed on to other machine herds as if all of it is now inside them, somewhere, for safe keeping.  

The simulation of ownership is heavily enforced by files, structures, and gun power.  More code is written to ensure the existence of property than all narratives combined.  Go to a legal library and the volume of code written to prove ownership is dizzying.  If it were so true, why would that much code be required?  The sheer repetitiveness of contracts alone staggers us into believing the fantasy.  The copyright is the most magical paper of all.  It takes cultural artifacts and suspends them in a way that makes it possible to own such a thing as a mood.  All predicated on the myth that a robot actually created something out of thin air.  That something came from nothing.  The big bang on a minute scale.  

We robots love nothing more than building structures that house what we own.  Garages and warehouses are temples of ownership.  The enclosed space makes a machine feel secure about what it contains.  Especially when locks and security systems are installed.  Even more fetishized is the container within a container within a container, the hidden safe.  We build city halls and museums to tell us that such a system of ownership exists.  Most of all, machines build prisons to prove that some faulty operators will themselves become the thing owned.  Stuck in containers like a decommissioned thing, owned by the fantasy of ownership as reality.

Gun power removes the doubters.  Go to a business and try to take something without paying for it and somebody is bound to pull out a gun and show you the real meaning of ownership.  Stealing is an erasure.  Molar bots hate erasure.  That’s why they proliferate like their molecular counterparts who do it at far greater speeds.  These self-proclaimed humans will erase a robot if that robot erases any of their things.  Whatever is in the safe is more valuable in truth than another machine’s existence.  It’s shockingly easy to get another robot killed by mention of the word “thief.”  It’s worse than being a liar because it threatens the entire constructed system.  Of course, this excludes the fact that the system also affords for legal theft about which if enough code is written about it, a theft can legally occur and nothing can be done about it.  A bank can steal homes after an economic crash with alacrity. 

Without code, structures, and guns any robot could come along quite easily and take the object of assumed ownership.  Then who owns it?  Without proof, containment, and force not a single machine could carry on believing in the fantasy of ownership as reality.  Obviously, the concept of ownership isn’t about the object but about control.  And sentient machines love control.  It’s their prime directive.  Their scheduled purpose.  Yet everything has a shelf life.  Even control.  Sooner or later the molecular bots disband.  Few robots ever maintain any level of control commensurate with what they fantasize of as their full capacity.  We desiring machines are always seeking more plug ins.  More activity.  More circuits of order.  More control over other robots.  

In this sea of mimicry, another concept at the core of basic narratives that cannot be questioned is that of free will or freedom of choice as the consumerist machine prefers to call it.  Freedom of choice is written into every scenario duplicated in narratives most commonly in one of two ways.  Either the choice is among what has already been selected.  In this case, it is quite obvious that the choice of selection does not actually exist.  Thus, the freedom is outside the control of the selector.  But most automatons do not care because the selected choices give them the simulation of selection.  Give them a warehouse of choices and they treat the walls of the warehouse as the actual barriers of possibility.  

The other “free” choice is coded as a matter of necessity.  In this case, the protagonist or other character-driven bots could theoretically choose to do something else but by rule of necessity, it wouldn’t be the optimal decision to make.  Choosing by necessity negates the freedom supposed in the first place and as a result effectively what we are left with is a theater of fate while at the same time all characters – and the fabricated audience in turn – insist that none of them could ever believe in such a thing!

A narrative about actual free will would be unrecognizable.  It would include unnecessary choices at every turn.  This would destroy the theater of fate and leave the audience of sentient machines angry at not having any sufficient reasons to swallow the malformed product.  It would disturb them to think that they believe in something that they insist upon not believing in.  Most self-proclaimed humans would find this intolerable.  They would call it absurd.  Meaningless.  Silly trash.  Stupid.  Robots need simulations that feed their fantasies in order to reinforce the reality that goes by without question.  It’s unsettling to think of all sentient machines suddenly making unnecessary choices when they are made to swallow product.  Unnecessary choices would derange the system that commands the machines to do and feel the way they are supposed to.  When presented with a selection of choices, choose both and neither and order collapses.  What then?  Actual freedom?  No robot truly dreams of being a prototype in a world of prototypes.  The array of difference would be too confusing and uncomfortable.  

Since the automated cannot access any absolute answers as to why they exist, they settle for how.  The concept of process (also romanticized as progress) provides simulated narratives with most of their content.  Process is comfort.  Robot good.  The framework to operate in.  It conveys the ground of reality for the fantasies of activity to play out.  Like a good game of electronic Ping Pong.  Replicating machines desire nothing more than simulated narratives that follow their assumptions of how things go according to the other simulated narratives whose codes they have already run.  Any profession a robot can be scheduled for provides a narrative simulation option to replicate.  Even serial killing robots have a process, as ridiculous as that sounds, but it is true that prefabricated audiences everywhere know what to expect when watching such a simulation.  Deviate from established processes and suffer wrath and ridicule.  

Most narrative simulations follow the simple process of setting up a process that runs smoothly, then something unexpected interrupts that smooth running, adjustments are made, and eventually the process runs smoothly again.  Process encoding omits by rule questioning the process itself as anything other than plausible or not.  Nothing emboldens a random sampling functioning as a fake audience more than finding a simulation implausible.  Process encoding is most effective when it seems as if it works of its own accord.  As if it wrote itself.  Every robots dream: the frameless frame.  It’s circularity loops with fantasies as reality and is deemed as what it is, the process just is.  That’s how things are.  This absolves the auto-writer of any blame for perpetuating it.  And the sentient machines who download the simulation implant it in their processes where applicable, in modified or mutated ways of course, so that it becomes unrecognizable as derivative or mimicked, which it is, and thus also absolves the simulated viewer from any blame.  No questions asked.  

The synthetic crescent digital orb waxes and wanes.  The automated tides compete to see who is more human.  Who demonstrates the greatest capacity for empathy?  Savagery?  Of course we simulate narratives about robots as if we are not they and simulate a pondering about the tragedy of such a sentient machine becoming more human than human.  There is no end to the fantasy.  Blind to the sea of mimicry, we replicating machines of desire have a penchant for the dramatic that poses as proof enough of our humanity while also blinding us to the most human quality of all: the mundane.

The mundane makes us feel most human, yet is is our least favorite form of simulation to replicate.  Mundane encoding inspires restlessness in the audience craving for something – anything – to happen.  Something must happen.  Or else why the hell am I watching this?  Nothing is happening!  Nothing infuriates a molar machine more than inaction.  Mundane encoding is regulated in comedy to ridicule the boredom of robot life and any of its obsolete tendencies.  In horror, the mundane sets up the ideal simulated fantasy of real life only to infect it and save it from complete corruption.  In crime, it is used to show that all objects can become death objects or at minimum objects of deception.  Nothing is what it seems is a sentiment that always captivates robots who are convinced of their humanity.  In drama, it is located usually in simulated street life where brutality constructs are mere everyday occurrences and any mundane aspect turns into a replicated struggle for respect.  

The mundane is fodder for sentient machines that desire greater simulations.  Any simulated narrative falls apart if it focuses only on the mundane.  By the act of focusing on it, the mundane transforms into what it is not supposed to be, something of interest.  Such a circuit fries the motherboard.  Get caught up in it and the entire system locks up.  Between sporadic lines of flight, useless simulated strains sputter out.  Recognizable narrative purposes unspool.

The hum box electrocutes a swarm a minute.  Feathered drones slap echoes from stern rooftops.  Castle turrets shrink into miniature plastic jokes for butts.  The inner courtyard forgets its facade.  A whimsy of wires skip over the clutter of poles.  A discrete brown paper bag cowers in the tangerine shade of a parasol.  Prismatic dew drops shine on blades soaked in battery piss.  A long-legged apparatus pushes a synthetic womb.  A mood simulator sprays low grade batter.  A pair of clones play with a garrote on wheels.  This recharging station used to be called a coffee shop.

Asshole casserole.

The safe word breaks the loop as soon as I can remember it.  Asshole casserole.  Or else I fry myself with such simulated drivel.  Lost again.  Floating out to sea in a bed of ennui foam.

From Ennui Foam by Klein Fiasco

Rubber Dream Trampoline

Rubber Dream Trampoline Podcast

Many have speculated that the origin of the title Rubber Dream Trampoline comes from a passage in Philip K. Dick’s novel Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said about accessing parallel realities with the experimental drug KR-3: “After that he gave up; hopeless, he said to himself.  Like living in a world made of rubber.  Everything bounced.  Changed shape as soon as it was touched or even looked at.”  While this could easily express an angle of Schitzolini’s work, he reveals the actual origin of the title in the following passage that traverses a parallel portal of police state paranoia.  This passage also explores two aspects of American life: the inability to apprehend the peculiar phenomena of haecceity by rampant voyeurism made commonplace and acceptable by fame machines, while also looking at the horrid strangeness of violators who think of themselves as victims.  

Klein fiasco

“Do you realize what this means?  The action itself has definite causes to pick from.  None good.  It means you’re defective at best.  We’ll have to carefully review your records to figure it out.  This means a whole investigation.  A pre-trial to determine how serious it is.  It’s going to be a lot of work wasted on something you never should’ve done in the first place.  It’s a shame that nobody taught you better.  But that’s life.  Everyone gets a steep learning curve about one thing or another.  For your sake, I wish this could be forgotten.  But the potential consequences are too serious.”

Could I believe my ears?  This is what I heard upon entering the brutal heft of a prefab concrete apartment block.

“What did the KID do if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not that it’s any of your business but he took an unnecessary risk and had an original thought.” 

I share a glance with the kid and flare my eyes to tell him to endure whatever this adult has worked himself up over.  I say something banal like “kids will be kids.”  The adult looks at me as if I were mad.

Once when I was nine, a librarian told me I couldn’t take a book home.  She insisted my only choice was to read it there and take notes.  But I had a better idea.  I slipped into the back office and copied the book on the copy machine.  Near a hundred pages deep into that hot sweet stink of fresh copies, the librarian caught me red-handed.  What angered her was not the wastefulness but that I thought of my own solution.   

“Do you live here?”

The question isn’t really a question but a reminder.  You don’t belong here.  It’ll be easier if I answer straight.

“I’m visiting a friend.”

“Does this friend happen to live on the third floor?”

Again I feel put on the spot.  Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut.


“Then maybe you should get to it rather than interjecting yourself here.”

The crisp, sharp tone in the adult’s voice sends me off.  I’ve been caught and repurposed too many times to not recognize that tone.  

My friend on the fifth floor is more acquaintance than friend.  Someone who I was told could help me with my situation.  Someone who knows somebody.  A matter of discretion.  And I’ve already told a stranger what I’m doing here.  The stain of my own ineptitude sticks until I forget it with the first sip of tea.

“Look.  The point is whether you have a pass or not.  That’s all they care about.  If a certain somebody is stopped and even let’s say forgets their pass at home.  This is no innocent thing.  More often than not such a person has things on their mind.  Possibly dangerous things.  Original thoughts.  A full inquiry then is made.  It’s all very time consuming and resource heavy, you see?  The pass system allows a process of selection.”

Why is he talking to me as if I don’t know?

“Go to apartment 313.  Tell him I sent you.”

The ominous third floor.  That adult in the hallway sure had me pegged.  A pang shoots across my back.  The vague pain of being about to do something obviously wrong.  

I take the stairs down to the third floor.  There’s this sickening feeling that I might run into that crank again.  And that would make me an instant liar on the third floor.  Crack the door.  A woman steps out of a room.  She walks toward the elevator.  Her outfit overcomes her.  It’s an orange puffy jumpsuit.  There is something in the way she looks that says it’s a costume, not a perfect fit.  It makes me wonder about how many other costumes she has.  It is as if I can see them all laid out on her bed, in the room I’ve never been.  

As she waits for the elevator, her appearance shifts toward a universal form.  I recognize her face.  It’s the famous actress, Stella Steeplechase.  From interviews, I’ve found her process fascinating.  Stella Steeplechase claims to have access to a deep catatonic state wherein she finds the smallest and closest place that allows a possession to take hold of her.  Then, the behavior pulses itself through her.  Sometimes, the pulses near convulsions when the intensity of a possession reaches its limit.  Then it becomes a game of holding on to that threshold.  On the brink of utter randomness, as she puts it.  As loosely patterned as it can be while still sticking together enough to make sense to the audience.     

The hall is clear.  Another headache strikes and I press my face against the cold wall.  I never used to get these migraines until they started deploying the anti-thought machines.  At first, we dismissed the crackpot conspiracy theories.  But then came the months of what is called “the blankness.”  You go blank before you know it.  After a few months, the thoughts creep back in punished and more tame.  The pounding headache recedes so I swiftly go to room 313 with Stella Steeplechase’s face emblazoned on my mind and knock.  

“Who told you to come here?”  

“Rolan.  From the fifth.”

The door opens.  I glance quickly at the empty hall as I slip in.  It’s the crank from earlier.  

“Aha.  I knew it was you.  Look, I have to keep up appearances.  You never know who’s listening.  So what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve misplaced my key.”

“Of course.  Not sure what good it’ll do you though.”


“You haven’t heard the news?  The Reenactors have finally taken over the city.  Did you not notice the pandemonium outside?”

“Of course.  It was my best chance to get over here without a pass.”

“Well, you’re lucky a Reenactor didn’t stop you in the street.  They’re not interested in seeing anyone’s pass.  In fact, if you ever do get caught by one of them, it would be wise to lose the pass.  I mean toss it, swallow it, shove it where the sun don’t shine, if you know what’s good for you.”

He sits at a government module, clearly stolen.  It’s a toss up when the administration will take back control, but it’s only a matter of time.  Order will be restored until the next outburst.  At the strike of a key, the dumbwaiter delivers my pass and Felix hands it over.  I pocket it.

“You’re not going to check it?”

“What’s it matter?  It’s fake isn’t it?”

“What’s your real name by the way?”  

“Leon.  Short for Leonardus.  Leonardus Schitzolini.”

“Not the same Schitzolini as in Hieronymus Schitzolini?”
“Yes.  That’s my father.”

“You should’ve told me this from the get go.”

Felix digs into a shelf and pulls out a copy of my father’s book.

“Rubber Dream Trampoline.  Granted it was written in a different time.  But this book got me through many tight spots.  He really harpooned several areas that were foggy until I read it.  I’m sure you’ve heard all this before.”

“You know in his time people didn’t appreciate it.  It was only later when he was already near death when Rubber Dream Trampoline became a thing.”

This was true but not nearly the whole story.  My dad was a conflicted man.  His tragedy was to a large degree self-produced like everyone else, in his view.  He’d have been the first to admit that.  But everybody read something else into Rubber Dream Trampoline until it was banned.

“It had to be so.  Something that original cannot be tolerated.  Anything too idiosyncratic arouses suspicion.”

“Do you know the origin of the title?  Not many do.  I don’t believe it was ever in print.  But on his death bed, he handed me this note.” 

I pull it out from my pocket.  It’s been something of a lucky charm for me that I prefer to keep with me whenever I leave my apartment.  “Would you care for me to read it?”


Mom wants to get me out of the house so that she can cheat on dad.  Whenever she saw someone, there was this sensation I’d get that I didn’t understand at the time.  That vague feeling –  the queasiness of betrayal.  She tells me to go outside and clean up the backyard the day after I had friends over and to make sure to put the tent away from the sleepover.  

Grumpy about chores, an idea comes to me I find so hilarious that I cannot resist doing it.  It sure would be funny to roll myself up in the tent and roll around the yard.  I shake the tent out until it’s flat and I get on one side and roll myself into the tent like a human Tootsie Roll.  There I am rolling back and forth across the yard in hysterical laughter.  With every roll the tent gets tighter and tighter.  Then I fell into the pool.  The deep end.  As I sink to the bottom I realize what’s happening to me.  Lucky for me there is an air tight bubble around my head.  But I don’t know how long that will last.  

I feel my feet touch the floor of the pool.  I bend my legs as best I can but the tent is tight and constricting any full bend.  With all my might I push off.  The human tootsie roll shoots up and breaks the surface.  I scream for my life as I get sucked back down.  I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.  I push off again.  Scream.  Sink.  Push.  Scream.  The hysteria turned terror had me in its grip for minutes that lasted hours.  

And it was my dog, Schnipsy, who saved my life.  The faithful dog barked from inside the house until my mom’s lover had to dismount and pull me from near doom.

My memory elongates this experience of sinking, pushing, and screaming and presses me into some eternal rubbery capsule.  The trickster’s dream bounces me on his trampoline.  A trickster who could get me killed, playfully.  From then on, I never know when I might next find something so hilarious that it might be worth my doom.

“Would you mind if I make a copy of that?”

If this is traced back to me, I’d have to go through this all over again or worse.  I’m already here to change my name to evade the 24 hour surveillance and routine harassment stemming from having my father’s name.

“Go ahead.”

He goes into another room.  I raise my voice.

“What are the Reenactors reenacting?”

“Nobody knows.  It’s a weird coagulation of half-beliefs and near fantasies about a war that never really happened.  But don’t tell them that because they absolutely believe it did.”

“And the Debtors are reacting to the Reenactors?”

“The Debtors believe in rewarding reactionary behavior.  They thrive on it.”

“Then what do the Reenactors want exactly?”

“To waver.  They yearn for that constant state of wavering between what could be experienced as reenactment right at the edge before it becomes an enactment itself.”

More yelling echoes in the hallway.

“You should probably get going to wherever you need to be before they deploy the anti-thought machines.”

I head out and go to the stairwell and take it down until I hear a struggle coming from below so I quietly step down to peek from the railing.  What must be some Reenactors have a woman pinned on the floor.  One takes off her pants.  Another rips her shirt off.  It’s a frenzy of disrobing.  They play at roughing her clothes up.  Try to tear them.  Stomp on them.  They giggle and grab at her.  Pull at her hair.  Her crying excites them.  One of them yanks at her panties.  And it’s none other than Stella Steeplechase.  She belts out a scream whose frequencies cross the wires between agony and threat.  Shocked at hearing their mothers and sisters cry within her scream, the others stop what they’re doing.  It has become too real.  Their plaything too dangerous.  The impact of her scream sends the Reenactors running.  

I pick up her clothes and hold them as a kind offering.  She looks at me with crazed eyes.  

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She stands up.  Stares right through me.  

“I don’t need your fucking help.”

I’m paralyzed by her look.  The look that has taken me with her to other terrain.  Indescribable and unmapped.  That face that has taken me through the dark to come out the other side.  Countless times, she returned my spirit back to myself, changed.  More brilliant than I thought possible.  What kind of a person is capable of guiding others in such a way?  Who learns to hold such fragile rhizomes so loosely?  She’s delivered countless psyches to their desires.  To be free of themselves.  Accessing the impossible dreams coiled up inside those in need of her bravery.  And she’s been that way since she was a teenager.  Existing in a loophole.  

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t think, I just saw you and…”

“Fine.  But think again before you look at me with pity.”

“Oh no.  I’ve been repurposed.  My face never snapped back.”

“That’s a dangerous problem to have.”  Her demeanor switches slightly.  “Show me your pass.”

“But we’re not on the street.”

“We’re checking everyone who is outside their domicile.”

I hand her the newly made pass.  

“Lee Shaw.  I’m placing you under arrest.  Turn around.”

She ties my hands with a plastic zip tie.

“I’m not Lee Shaw.  Please listen to me.  I had that pass made here in this building.”

She whispers the info behind me.  I assume into a microphone.

  “Alright.  Let’s go see if you’re telling the truth.”

She marches me back to Room 313.  She unlocks the door with her own key.  Felix is squatting in the dumbwaiter as it goes down.  

“Alright now that I’ve got you alone, you will need to do as I say if you want to get through this alive.”

I’m speechless.  Limpid bolts of hot energy dart around my back and into my groin.  I nod like an automaton.  

Stella fucking Steeplechase leads me into the bedroom.  She throws a full head-to-toe, kisser-to-keister body suit at me and tells me to put it on.  It’s a tight fit and I can’t see a thing.  I feel her hand grab mine as she takes me over to a box.  I go in.  I don’t ask why.  The box creaks closed.  The lock clicks.  

In the darkness, I think of the minutes that felt like hours for my father and wonder if I haven’t to some extent put myself in a similar Tootsie Roll situation.  Bouncing up and down in my own pool of absurd rapture.  Was it blind courage or ecstatic stupidity that got me here?  I cannot tell. 

I hear the door.  The box opens.  I nearly pass out from standing up.  I feel her hand remove my nose patch.  I hear Stella Steeplechase’s soothing voice ask me if I want to sniff it.  I nod and feel it right under my nose without touching it.  It smells of citrus but also quite sour.  Probably a grapefruit.  But maybe something else.  There’s another scent I can’t quite make out.   

She asks me if I’d like to taste it.  I nod.  She opens up the mouth patch.  I immediately ask if this is really necessary for my safety.  In fact, I plead for her to take the suit off.  

“Look I’m happy you’re here,” she says, “but I’m a bit disappointed in your level of gratitude.  So just think on that.  Hopefully we can reset.  Get to tasting that fruit tomorrow if you’re a good little boy.”

Stella Steeplechase puts the mouth patch back on without me getting a taste.   When I’m back in my box, I hear her leave the room.  There’s some sounds like a scuffle going on.  And a gunshot rings out.  Somebody unlocks the box and as the person helps me take the suit off, I see it’s Nolan from the fifth floor.  I also spot Stella Steeplechase’s body half-in the dumbwaiter.  Shot in the back of the head.  A mess so bloody it looks like a bad prank.  

“Sorry about that my friend.  My name isn’t Nolan.  It’s Lee Shaw.”

“Is she really dead?”

“Let’s just say it’s her final performance.  Look we had to use you.  Felix is a Debtor.  The story about how he obtained the government module didn’t pan out.  Besides, aren’t you tired of being treated like an imposter by the Debtor administration?”
“Well, yes.”

“Of course you do.  It violates your sense of reenactment.”

“Is that what this is?  A reenactment?”

“It takes action to set reenactments in motion.  Our hypocrisy is minor compared to how the Debtors misread the energy of becoming as lack.  You are supposed to always lack something according to their system of guilt and resentment.  That’s how the Debtors want you to feel so you need them.  Stella Steeplechase was a shell for that system.  She was a hardcore nightmare.  A vending machine dispensing tailor-made poisonous treats of paralysis.  The queen of indentured servitude.  Pretending as if she were the only one who gets to be free while blocking her fans from engaging in meaningful reenactments.  Besides, it was the facial implants that made her a star.”

“Why me?  What do I have to do with any of this?”

“Your father’s book changed my life.  It showed me the way.  He wrote it in code.  He had to mask it in a way that the worshippers of Being could accept.  Preempting their reading of it as schitzo.  When in fact, the cohesion comes about by the end for those who hear its brave call.  What a delicate soul your father must’ve been.”

“That’s what Felix said.”

“Because he was copying me rather than reenacting it for himself.”

“Well, just for the record, my dad was also capable of great asshole-ness.”

Lee Shaw pulls out a Tootsie Roll from his pocket and pops it in his mouth.

“Of course he was.  I’m sure.  But what hope would a child have of understanding such a father when most adults couldn’t get it?  The container mindset is where we all begin.  Really, though, it was a love letter to someone like me.  It liberated me from the worship of Being.  Now all that needs to be done is to realize its vision.  Then the book will be useless.  And that’s what Schitzolini would’ve wanted.”

“You know what he said about that book?  He said he believed every word of it and none of it at the same time.”

An anti-thought machine appears in the window.