“I don’t particularly enjoy that my music is stripped of ancillary details, and it just sort of comes out of this big tap called the Internet like water. I like some of my water to be neatly presented in a bottle. With a label on it.”—Brian Eno
Michael Stewart could feel himself becoming superhuman.
It was confusing at first, each sense competing for attention: the unnoticed, captivating complexity revealing itself in the creases and folds of his shirt, then the swirling, fractal geometry inside his eyelids; an ever merging, carnival roar of electrical appliances, birds, cars and his crying wife; the metallic tang and fleshy pain of teeth slicing through tongue; the smell of soiled trousers. His new mental powers made his fingers grasp and twitch, then arms, legs and spine: whole body jerking and wildly spasming. He would have wondered why he couldn’t read minds or see the future or fly, if he hadn’t been overwhelmed by a barrage of randomly firing ideas and memories, perception distorting and intensifying until ego dissolved and all that remained was pure White Thought.
“Well, yes, we do only use a fraction of our brain at any moment,” Evelyn Swift explained to the widow, while the paramedic removed the body, “but every area has a function. I’m afraid turning them all on at once didn’t actually elevate him to psychic super genius; it was just dumb.”
“Some of that stuff is raw as all hell, and some of the websites they sit on are frankly horrifying. But they’re doing it for the idea. So long as the idea gets out of their head and into the world, they’re winning. Not everything has to be smooth and shiny and run through user-experience wisdom. Sometimes, it just has to be done.”—Warren Ellis