At some point in time, forty or fifty years the junior of now, space was the place for future minded mammals. Space is a place, indeed, but cluttered it is with now derelict materializations of grandiose plans, expended craft and decaying moons of the metallic order. Does space exist as space if there is nothing but clutter?
When electromagnetic pulses pulverize the outboard brains of meanderthals and tele-cocooned communities, tales of pinball wizardry will take on new significance. Even in the always-already impending mental glitch stupor, the senior moments trailing on right now–sense of place is a self imposed dis-position.
But as the portent-deprived apocalypticists in our midst will confirm, the EMP scenario is hardly hyperbole. Google yourself a provisional representation of rudely awakened somnambuloids left pawing for new mythos and modes of orientation. Back to basics they will lift their heads, and attune their eyes —like prying saucers—eager to go about constructing temporary constellations of coherency. Fashioning formations out of the sky-flung dreck and discarded futures from the worlds of tomorrow. What mythos will emerge when the lights go out?
Redolent of the the iridescent spandex hovel from which they emanated, sputtering half-humanoid shape forms and assorted sensory blasts gave pause to passers by, inciting a hypnotic lull on the immediate populace
