To ensure full digital detox, I dismantle my phone and laptop into their constituent parts and post them to random addresses across the world. I don’t know what all these fiddly bits do, so when the person behind the counter asks me about the contents of each padded envelope, I panic and say the first things that come into my head: Kubrick’s script for the Moon landing, the bullet that killed Princess Di, a subliminal message cut into Star Wars, the soul of a prominent figure on the world stage which they exchanged for a life that would make de Sade blanch. The lizard behind the counter doesn’t blink as they slip each one into a sterilised bag which a government drone will collect as soon as I’ve gone. I tell them to keep my bank card so I can’t be traced, though I can already hear a whirr and buzz descending from the chemtrail web and feel the chips in my system chatter in response. Did you know that a stamped postcard weighs exactly 6g and that when 6G comes online the shit will really – I mean really – hit the fan? The longest postal delay ever recorded is 89 years. I shall erase my fingerprints with battery acid and replace my blood with bleach and sterilised water.
Art Michael Petalengro