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The empty flesh | Julia Koebel

The empty flesh


I couldn’t go there while being alive. So I decided to go once dead. Floating in Kelvin’s infinite ocean. The beyond, quite literally. Above, around, everywhere, nowhere. The vacuum, the void. To never complete one’s journey. And why not? Who knows what may be encountered, while we drift away…


06 h 40. Shit. Signal is fucked up, again. That thing is not even capable of properly connecting to the membrane on a regular freaking basis. Global standards can go screw themselves. If we could at least just choose another brand that the junk provided by the system… but there is no brand anymore. This crap’s only use is to screw me late, when it doesn’t turn my nostrils into a blood pissing contest whenever the waves blocking filter goes wacko during rush hour. Or when riding a massive solar eruption. Meaning one or two times per week. Normality for you.

7 h, 11 h, 19 h, 25 h… today’s morning shift got me in the face. I hereby present you with the infernal symphony of the dwelling earthling: more or less 13 billion people getting their jelly jars shaken simultaneously, every 8 hours of every day. Because days are as far as we go. Months are too long to remember giving a name to. A grand and beautiful theory it must have been, to standardize work rotations on a planetary scale. An excellent, dazzling idea that everyone has long forgotten about. Must have been ages, but how many? Now that is the interesting question. Anything time related is completely irrelevant in our peaceful society. As redundant and useless as war.

But going back to our business. Brain implanted call-up membranes achieved at least one thing, and brilliantly: the standardization of mass migraines. And I am not even talking about the post-rotation tremors.

It’s 45 degrees outside, and the thermometer is only getting warmed up : it shall not renounce its formidable ascension until it reaches 55. At least.

If only I lived in Iran…

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