The inward collapse of information to a single point of access greatly reduces our need for the specialized and scripted interfaces of institutional grandiose. Recognizing desire as catalyst, instead of stagnant agent, awaiting change in an unpredicted assemblage of disparate objects, hidden meaning to emerge from the jumble. Fingerbones in a bowl, tears of a hummingbird. We want to experience the storehouse, not the showcase, our stupid grins reflecting off of the display case glass. We want data and not interpretative signage. There is a pantheon of constellations, a do-it-yourself connect the dots between cloud types, fitted parts, lost spaces you know well, postcard places in your daily mind. Popes, motorcycle parts, unnamed thoughts, lost cities redundant, cocktail stirrers and old railroad spikes.

I gazed, roving as through a cabinet

Or wide museum (thronged with fishes, gems,

Birds, crocodiles, shells) where little can be seen

Well understood, or naturally endeared,

Yet still does every step bring something forth

That quickens, pleases, stings…

– William Wordsworth

The exquisite taste of death juice surging into the brain is this deep sleep between the barrages of forced bargains. Functional noise scraped from the recesses of the wireless internet, yet resonating in the collective consciousness in the neural net of memory, starting to buzz and emerge in the quiet mornings of sleeping machines. The written word changed temporal communication into something new. Sound wave, keystroke, Robin’s Egg Blue. Number 2.

Our dreams are a museum of thought, unrelated ephemera scattered from our consciousness, on display, as we wonder through, the familiar objects recast as fantastic. A poecilorama of poecilomyrma ants. The panharmonicon piping out ringtones. Compression hats. Folding upon folds, paradigms crumble. Flashes of infinite utopias on the moment of impact. Spectrographic shows nightly, for connoisseurs of internal discourse. Therefore live in lucid betweens.