It seems we will all translate to the Internet of things; and as we atomise to the minimum disk space required, one will realise the shrinkage causes an immense reduction of the author. O how fatal. Things register to a system that translates the world, and the violence of the world into a consumable substance. A parasitic plant or intestinal flora. The signs join crowds of jilted images and autistic words, whom have the power to direct bodies and mouths. Everything is documented and catalogued to a subterranean e-chamber of obsolete forms, genre and vernacular: the entire social memory woven into popular culture. All signs are plucked from their initial post under the logic of reproduction and distribution: a system predicated on stealing, borrowing and contamination. Orphaned signs are dragged through the uncertain contents of the Internet’s giant throng until they fashion an assortment of vague and contradictory diagnoses, things pointing in all directions and the arrangement of meaning faltering at its gate. One great muck; copied once and twice, until the chaos doubles. ReTweet and once more. The tumour grows and its signs begin possess a double existence, as material objects and information. Signs born to a surrogate and calling a stranger mother. They have gone astray; these illegitimate signs are barely real; they do not require space and dimension is limitless. Pixel anatomy is immune to decay; these signs are chemical polymers, material constituted of repeating molecular sequences. Every unit of meaning bound to the other by HTML, until they form one great tail of hallucinations and fakes. A clusterfuck of a thousand lifetimes reduced and labelled, squeezed into the virtual structure that is only interested in parts. It is concerned only with the details of a pattern not the pattern itself. A square is not a grid and the apparatus is slightly autistic, it struggles with semantic pattern and so meaning jerks like a fool. What is the threshold for our mental tolerance of this moronic information? Its heaps grow to colossal towers, and the system takes pleasure in its indifference to the material. Place AGM-142 Popeye missile above her naked chest and succeed it with a macerated infant that forces us to wince. There is no responsibility taken, the Internet of things enjoys true liberty, ordering its sequence by algorithmic proximity rather than according to chronology or ethics; and among its nauseous library there is a conspiracy of signs, an understanding that not one is innocent and none insignificant. All that is documented is noteworthy, and as it fails to rot, like a sleeper cell it will rear its head at a later date. O the gore they depict. Violence poses naked in images, with all veils removed. The nudity of images is akin to the erotic body in a striptease. One image of bloodied warfare will be followed by a calculated and comical second; then, an acute image of violence returns; slightly more information, slightly less. The calculated undressing of a subject whom at the same time withdraws to maintain a deceptive suspense. A tease. Escalation administered by drip-feed: the shoulder creeping from its sleeve only to conceal itself as one approaches the incandescent point of explosion: the orgasm is cut short. Such encounter is a private, secular and profane sort of consumption. And between ourselves, when presented with an excess of signs one will naturally plot a pattern from which they can extract meaning, a conspiracy to justify the extremes. Epstein and Madeleine McCann, all complicit in the September 11th attacks. As the agent becomes too creative in their construction of more complex patterns, eventually he will degrade into what appears to be hallucination. It is the non-event which is greater, the highly toxic period which affects a rotting corpse to cause nausea and powerlessness: false events seemingly justified by the ooze of fake images, false actors and poor doubles. Is history possible? Is anyone serious? We can do more and more with less and less until eventually you can do anything with nothing.