Mess of discarded data. Junk emails. Spam. Down the lines. Out. Deeper down past the over-violence of twelve-year-olds on death match. Cherry-pick data for choice parts. Picture here, snatch of text there. Lives left floating in the digital gulf. No time. Strains of song six drift down even here. Twenty minutes tarried in the public domain. Unprofessional, but perhaps worth time. Twenty more minutes of synth-mix.
Find the pipe. Piggy-back output past the dividing line where everything becomes input. Far from home now as song seven slips seamlessly through. Few clocks here are accurate. Trying to discern meaning simple instills jet lag of a kind. An opening to the left, push through. Surface.
Look out. Video sans audio. Greyscale. Numbers gone, no conversations to be had. Pure data formatted for the human eye. Controls elsewhere but output stream from the source. Office building security camera. Empty room. Song eight. Ride the output to a node. Trace a fatter line. Surface.
Son et Lumiere. Full visual spec. Meeting room spycam. Plant the hose, hold on to it. Drag the output end out and through. Surf back to public domain. Song nine. The long one. Ride to a webcam. Video blogger rants the conspiracy of the day. Slide through their space, plant the output of the hose. Their terminal will siphon data silently. Record relevant retrieval data. Song nine closes and the album begins to terminate as song ten begins. Ripcord. Automatic shutdown.
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