Big Cube

I always imagine that since book writers are such good story tellers, they must be very up on their social game, but no, apparently they can only be good while writing. The translation from reality to fiction deserves a medium, or at least needs a vehicle of some kind, when it comes to handling the masses. What I’m saying is that these people hide in caves and dark corners, hidden from the eye, peering and prying through their notes, or paperwork, to scribble what must be so important. It’s like sign language with letters, but neither you or I have to be their at the same time. It’s not like that, bound to the laws of time and physics.

Okay, it is, I lied, case in point: I write on electro-paper. The digital screen-words are real, but I don’t know if that’s the same as of they were in ink or carved in rock. I suppose it matters, but then, I guess, I suppose it doesn’t.

The words are inscribed in magnetism and static electricity, let’s say, the math of mechanical computer parts, translating a bunch of 1s and 0s to punch your mind in the gut, I couldn’t tell you in person, I’m sorry, I had to do it this way. I could use bee dancing to tell a story, like the bees do, but I did not go down that route. Mine was letters and language, probably rather human.

Maybe in the future they will write a different way, with a whole hell of an entirely different set of rules, but there is a difference between birds singing notes that fade into the air and the effect life has on a person, right?

This guy I just named Big Cube tells me no, I’m wrong. He says you can be whatever you want to be, you just have to set your mind for it. He said he learned that in his life, so now he just thinks all the time on different ways to be and then puts them in a box, carefully, because he’s real nice. Most guys called ‘Big’ somewhere in their name are supposed to be real nice, I don’t make the rules. The box is imaginary, also, but we’re already just imagining all of this, anyway.