“Now what you need is some old coat hangers. Put 'em in your trunk in case you get the midnight special.”¹

“I still don't know what you mean.”

“You will, and you'll need those coat hangers to wake you up if it comes.”

In 2244 AI generates all artistic entertainment consumed by humanity. Art made by artists does not sell. Movies, holo-novels, real-novels, games, albums, and all imaginable forms of past and future media are simulated and generated by the content delivery mechanism at the rate of a few seconds per media. In the event that a human does make something on their own, it is drowned in the cosmic ocean of content and never seen by anyone but the creator.

Living on the edge is a cliché until it is not, and life hangs on a flexible razor cutting ice at fifty miles an hour. The razor springs from weight and swings your legs. Land the other razor and believe in it or you will lose it and yourself. But you cannot think about this, if you want to be fast. It must be ingrained by hours of sweating in cold.

You do not chase powder or resort experiences. You chase speed, a faster line: the elusive satisfaction of successful execution. Bend the razor, release, land.

A Revelation Fan-Fiction

What would it take for you to believe in a miracle? Would writing in the clouds make you believe? Or have you been fooled one too many times by bad faith evangelists? Do you need a subtle miracle, like a note passed under the table? Or, happily taking the note, would you dismiss it because of its subtlety? I have been asking myself these questions for the past two years.