We are entering an age where every book shall be squared, every secret told, where the naked, writhing meat on the end of every fork shall be seen as what it is. We are entering the Text Explicit, the Myth Omnivorous, the Story Pansexual. The Aeon of Dreams.
Reality has given way to hyperrreality. Hyperreality, delirious in its lies, became caught in its own web and turned like a monarch butterfly to transreality. Even Anime is being made Real. We are nothing but characters in a sixth or seventh Terminator sequel, a repurposed sample in a futuresynth tune. We are a direct to DVD horror movie, and we are forbidden to reproduce without the express written consent of Major League Baseball.
Some of us are nothing but craft beer and an ironic wolf shirt, the poor sods.
But there is hope. For therefore we are Sarah Connor…