For me, identity has ceased to be a narrative and has become a question of statics. The system describes a transfer of load onto the cervical axis until a sufficient state of stability is achieved. I only notice something else: the strange sensation that my neck belongs to a different room than the rest of my body.
The hygiene of saturation continues its work. Layers settle one upon another. The record remains clean. Interference decreases.
Someone left a glass of water on a table. It has been there so long that a pale ring has formed beneath it.
I do not know why I keep thinking about that.
The vertebrae receive the pressure as though they had been built for it from the beginning. The mechanism interprets this as a reorganization of structure. I, for a few seconds, have the absurd impression that I am holding a closed door shut with the back of my neck.
It makes no sense.
The material stabilizes.
The Master’s voice crosses the room and finds surfaces to attach itself to. My anatomy responds before my thoughts do. The thoughts arrive later and discover that everything is already occupied.
The report would indicate that residual autonomy continues to decrease.
I would say that I remember less and less of the exact shape of my own gestures.
Reception remains open. The architecture remains available. The support retains recording capacity.
And yet something persists.
It is not rebellion.
It is not will.
I am not even certain it belongs to me.
Sometimes it is only the shadow of an idea appearing and vanishing before it finishes itself. Like entering a room and immediately forgetting what you came to find.
The saturation continues.
The stone continues.
The whiteness continues.
I have to move my neck.
I am not moving it.
Perhaps I am.
The mechanism records no significant variation.
The ceiling lamp flickers once.
Then again.
Then it stops.
For a moment it seems important.
Then it doesn’t.
The structure continues.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
