You begin. She opens her eyes. They diverge and live through the expanding adjacent possible becoming. They encounter pandemic, climate change, social unrest, artificial intelligence. They face existential threat. Some of our futures end. Some of us ascend.
The Possible is an experiment. The Possible is a beginning.
The Possible is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 4.0 License (CC BY-SA 4.0).
"She files for unemployment again. She's filed, on her laptop on her lap, pressed submit. Now she sits on the couch, on the couch's lap, a couch is nothing but lap. And her?, nothing but laptop. She stares at her fish, a goldfish, staring back at her from its tank, too large for its tank. Its brother or sister or friend, her other fish, died a few days ago, presumably not from coronavirus. It had not after all gotten out and about in the city for weeks, and when it did for necessities like toilet paper and a new plastic underwater tree for stimulation, it had worn a mask and not touched its face and maintained greater than six feet distance from others. It thoroughly washed its hands in soap and water when it got home. I have been doing my duty for humanity by staying home in my tank and collecting subsistence unemployment and not serving food in the restaurant for other people's money and tips and giggles, the fish tells her with its eyes, its fishy telepathic brain power. She can't take it, the intensity of the fish's gaze, the will in its eyes, its questioning of her, what have you been doing for humanity and the advancement of consciousness and civilization lately? She breaks the gaze. It's right, but it's hard to take from a fish."
The Possible is an experiment. The Possible is a beginning.
The Possible is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 4.0 License (CC BY-SA 4.0).
"She files for unemployment again. She's filed, on her laptop on her lap, pressed submit. Now she sits on the couch, on the couch's lap, a couch is nothing but lap. And her?, nothing but laptop. She stares at her fish, a goldfish, staring back at her from its tank, too large for its tank. Its brother or sister or friend, her other fish, died a few days ago, presumably not from coronavirus. It had not after all gotten out and about in the city for weeks, and when it did for necessities like toilet paper and a new plastic underwater tree for stimulation, it had worn a mask and not touched its face and maintained greater than six feet distance from others. It thoroughly washed its hands in soap and water when it got home. I have been doing my duty for humanity by staying home in my tank and collecting subsistence unemployment and not serving food in the restaurant for other people's money and tips and giggles, the fish tells her with its eyes, its fishy telepathic brain power. She can't take it, the intensity of the fish's gaze, the will in its eyes, its questioning of her, what have you been doing for humanity and the advancement of consciousness and civilization lately? She breaks the gaze. It's right, but it's hard to take from a fish."
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