With much chagrin, a rather forced migration or simultaneous presence in a parallel dementia that would make any obliterati wince. The homely murk of our own ethereal abode not yet given to total abandon, a para-site, a para-citation, a correcting of violations. Or, in more euphemistic missives: a need for traversable wormholes.
An entrance into the social network, so called, under the illusions that we enter as some sort of facebookwUrm, rogue or cavalcade. Incubating in the stagnant waters, but no more linked to the fleshy minds of mammals than a domestic whirlpool is access to a value system outside of raw sewage.
A low-frills, ambivalent cultural virus, smug and given to smuggling derelict theory objects elsewhere, (((WFT))) now diving into the waters contaminated within the social mores of the continually, partially attentive.
And yet, already we “progress”. Already we can be “poked.” And, so one wonders if this virus is itself immune to the ecotoxic swill it proclaims to infrapopulate? Metcalf’s Muzzle at the ready, for lack of a fully equipped respirator. Fish don’t know water until beached, as the Mage McLuhan observed. This Owl knows water, doesn’t give a damn about the fishes. Water is for dipping one’s claws, used for making coffee-stimulants, for disguising hidden conduits to the Hollow Earth, tomorrow’s de-orbited satellites and so on. And yet already we find ourselves hooked.
Still, the owl form appears—a laughable 
While shy of a confirmed link, or two, there is reason enough to consider the “Mothman,” or “Bird man” as an adjunct operative. Zoological authorities will always laugh off any cryptid by pointing to a commonplace look-a-like. In presence of