Transcript: VOICE_001.M4A audio file.

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“Today is July 5th, 1984, or 2024, depending on how you look at it.

“Shit. I might have fucked up.

“I need to get the SD card from my phone into the safe deposit box I was told to use as a drop. This Galaxy 5 seems to be working fine… well, at least the installed apps still work. If the worse happens, and I don’t make it back, at least my message will. At least I hope so.

“I know that jumping back in the timestream doesn’t stop it from flowing. Every day I spend here is a day gone by there, so I don’t have to worry about feeling older when I get home. I also know that the big red button on my phone’s screen is supposed to initiate the Tunnel’s homing mode. I’m not sure how that works, since there are no 5G towers here. Like Elton John’s Rocketman, I don’t understand all the science behind the Tunnel, it’s just my job.

“Like I said, I think I fucked up. When I landed here, I discovered that there are some problems with our assumptions. My memories have now changed, but I’m not sure if they are subjective, or actual. This shit hurts my head.

“Anyway, I needed to know if I could influence anything that mattered, but I wanted to do it carefully. I remembered a softball game I was in on the 4th that year, or this year, or whatever. I decided to see if I could change one small play by distracting the biggest jerk I ever knew, Tommy Wilkers. He scored the winning run against my team that day, and gloated about it all year.

“When the big asshole started to swing at the last pitch, I screamed “MISS!” He checked his swing and missed the pitch, but every eye on the field looked toward me… including my own. I jumped up and bolted down the bleachers, pushing people out of my way and making one little girl cry after spilling her popcorn.

“The thing is, I now remember that day and the weird guy in the baseball hat and sunglasses who made that little girl cry. The pitch had been BALL 3, and Tommy had smacked the next one out of the park.

“I ran for at least 15 minutes.

“The weirdest part was the black van that showed up after that near the alley I was hiding out in. It was still there this morning, so I ducked through the Chinese restaurant, but that same van seems to be following me. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I think there is someone, some group or something, monitoring the timestream.

“I hope not, because I could have put us all on their radar. If so, I am sorry. I just pray I can pick this card up myself, in about 40 years.”

————————————————————————————

NOTE: Agent Salisbury was lost on Tunneling Mission 4. No sign of him was ever found, but this SD card appeared on the drop box on August 3, 2024. All records of that mission are being scrubbed, and his family will be compensated by anonymous donation.

Evidence:

The following photos illustrate precise events and behaviors that should have warned us about the future of humanity.

Photo Library

1984

JAN

IMG_01: Inside US Government laboratory where chemist teaches CIA Agents how to cook Crack cocaine (Brooks is seen on the left).

FEB

IMG_02: Freeway Rick and Blandón set up first “Rock House” in Los Angeles (commonly called Crack Houses today).

MAR

IMG_03: Crack targeted to predominantly Black communities and other minorities (disgraced Agent Brooks seen here in the black leather jacket).

APR

IMG_04: The cause of AIDS is identified as HIV while homosexuals are left to rot and die, as seen here.

Note: I have to get to my uncle in NY before he dies. Papa always told me he died in the fall of ’84 when Mama was pregnant with me and my brother was in the hospital.

MAY

IMG_05: Crack being sold to famous actor on Hollywood Blvd. Substance spreads to affluent communities.

Note: Oops.

JUN

IMG_06: Street violence increases exponentially in LA over the new addictive freebase substance. Gang wars explode, as seen here (Crips carry out hit on rival Bloods).

JUL

IMG_07: Teenager selling Crack at the Greyhound Bus Station outside of Chicago.

Note: I will be born one year from today.

AUG

IMG_08: My uncle, dead from AIDS at only 48. Found here, alone in his apartment in Jamaica, Queens, NY.

Note: Judging by the state of his decomposition and the oven-like temperature in here, I missed him by roughly 2 days. Someone disconnected his phone from the wall jack. He couldn’t even call for help. I guess he wasn’t found until the fall of ’84. Where is the humanity?

SEP

IMG_09: The “Crack Spot” busy on a Saturday night, right in front of “New York’s Finest” police officers.

OCT

IMG_10: Patient going into cardiac arrest due to Crack overdose (seen here, still clutching the Crack Pipe to her chest).

Note: One of the most terrifying things I’ve ever seen. The eyes, I’ll never forget the eyes.

NOV

IMG_11: The term “Crack” is published for the first time, as seen in this headline of the New York Times (this newspaper cost me only a quarter, which I found on the floor).

Note: Just like the AIDS epidemic, Crack has spread like wildfire across the country in mere months. No one is coming to save us.

DEC

IMG_12: A motherless child from inside infiltrated NY Crack Spot. I purchased him for $10 and brought him to the only Safe House I could find, seen here, at a church in the city.

Note: Father John assured his safety—I do not trust him, but the time portal was closing. What have I done?

Report:

Humanity is too susceptible to corruption, addiction being the source of all evil. The destruction of entire communities and future generations due to Crack cocaine happened in months, all without mainstream use of the internet. Honesty, responsibility, care for your fellow man—every quality which makes us worth saving bear no weight when an instant fix is on the line.

This corruption is enormously dangerous in the hands of the government. Crack was invented and distributed by rogue forces within the CIA to destroy an entire population of people (see photo evidence IMG_01, IMG_03). We cannot allow humans to become helplessly addicted on mass scales.

Humanity is now suffering from its new addiction, and it is being delivered directly into every set of hands on the planet (at lightning speeds). No age is off limits to this addiction and the toll on the innocent is immeasurable. In fact, innocence has been lost long before the age of instantaneous pleasure. Children went from being sold for a $10 “Crack Fix” to being sold for a free “Click Fix”.

We have to stop this madness before it ever starts. Otherwise, we will continue to sell our souls for Likes until we burn what remains of humanity to the fucking ground.

Final Note:

What we have done to each other for Likes is dehumanizing. Beyond that, what our species has done to innocent animals, children, and any other vulnerable demographic just for that millisecond fix is disgusting. Not even a virtuous $25 writing contest is safe from an innately unfair system and those who seek to undermine their fellow man with dishonest tactics. Of course the Likes cannot be resisted by those without integrity…

But they can bring even good, honest people down to their fucking knees, begging, for just one more suck off that Likes Pipe.

Conclusion:

Reset is imperative.

1984: Crack

2023: Likes

2062: ?

In Solidarity,

God help us all.

Signing off from the MRS1 Station

December 27, 2023

Special Agent IronEnigma

Captain of the Mephisto

—————————————

-

-

-

Resources: 63%

Wormhole: Stable

Authorization: Granted

Reset: Ready

*clicks the green button*

April 13, 1984.

The End.

What happens when you die?

I wish I would've known the answer

before now

when I'm

dying.

February 26, 1984.

Miami Grand Prix.

I took photos of her face.

Bloody,

streaked with an unholy combination of

tears and makeup and gore.

You could tell,

beneath the carnage

that she used to be

beautiful.

The idea of it,

the disconnect between was and is

thrilled me.

and thus began my quest.

February 1, 1984.

Sent to observe.

Arrival.

Phone in one hand

and new identity in the other.

I marveled

at the name I had assumed,

at the way it felt coming from my tongue.

A good name to blend in.

A good name to hide.

A good name to

take pictures with forbidden tech

from the sidelines

watching history

in first person.

March 5, 1984

When the gas station condom broke.

She looked at me with wide eyes and I

sobbed.

A facade of love that became a little too real.

I hope that she knew,

in the following moments,

that I, her lover,

would not be the one

that killed her.

She was killed by something far larger

than both of us,

some cosmic fury

that retaliated

against the imbalance.

Even as I photographed

her still living eyes

forbidden to intervene.

I should never

have accepted

her invitation.

Should never have joined her

in her apartment.

I had planted a seed, however

unintentionally

and she was paying for it,

history scrambling to erase

what I'd done.

She looked at me with wide eyes,

could not contemplate what was happening

as her body

dissolved.

I photographed the space

where she used to be.

March 18, 1984.

Her name was Theresa.

I've started to realize

the implications

of what I'm doing.

Not in the future,

but here. In the

past

where consequences are beginning

to feel too real.

Do you think

they will take me back

into the present?

I am

out of place.

Starving for touch

as everything I feel

crumbles to ash.

I found her body and dragged it

towards Canaveral Groves,

where I hoped

she'd be

remembered.

Watched the news

and waited

until I saw

her name,

five days later.

I took a photo of the headlines

a sick trophy of my good deed

that did not save her life

but gave her

a proper Death.

March 20th, 1984.

A blow dryer and super glue.

She was blind.

A deer in headlights she saw

the flash of my camera.

A flash she should not have been able to see.

I watched her cry super glue

watched it melt like crayons under a hair dryer

watched her run.

She cannot outrun the Fates.

They are after us both.

March 23, 1984.

And she fell, bleeding, into the river.

My fault?

Could this all be my fault?

I did not stab her,

and yet the knife is in my hands

and her body is in the river.

Please take me back to my time.

I do not belong here.

I cannot think. Cannot retaliate

against forces larger than me

wishing me gone.

I think they are winning.

March 26, 1984.

Room 30.

She slept besides me

in a hotel neither of us were supposed to be at.

She seemed afraid

as she slept, like a man was hunting her

in her dreams.

At breakfast, she told me

she needed to run.

I offered

to run with her.

And we drove

towards Milford Reservoir,

hoping we could outrun

God.

He comes in many forms.

Hers different from mine.

Her God followed us there and stabbed her with my hands

as she attacked me with a will that was not her own.

An illness that in my world may have been treated

but here, had no cure.

My God coerced me to drag her body

under the cedar tree.

Where she sat

as if resting.

The world would never know

what she'd done

or almost done.

And hopefully would never know what I'd done.

Send me back, please.

I cannot keep taking photos of this.

Cannot keep chronicling the side effects

of a time-traveler's disease.

March 31, 1984.

Las Vegas with a stop in Durango

The end of a month and the end of a life.

This should be

the end of my journey, too.

We made it out of Colorado, only to

vanish amid the highs and lows of Utah.

A mediocre place to end a mediocre life.

She was only 18.

I couldn't have done that.

Surely someone placed

these weapons in my hands

as a cruel joke.

Surely someone slathered her

in stage blood,

and not lamb's blood,

a lamb to the slaughter.

I have to get back to the present. The future?

Which one is it now?

I cannot tell.

No one is responding

to my texts.

Still, I send my photos,

still-frames of mutilated bodies

propelled by some uncontrollable force

of duty,

loyalty to the vultures

that sent me here

to bring them back

fresh carrion.

April 1, 1984.

This one, they won't identify right away.

I feel as though

I'm not

the only one here.

I could've sworn I saw

someone else taking a photo

of me.

I am being watched.

fleeing towards SoCal

in someone else's car.

Their 17 year old daughter is in the back seat.

I let her off

at a rest stop.

Yet again,

history has been altered.

I watch her

decay,

watch her identifying features

melt.

This one, they won't identify right away.

April 4, 1984.

A second phone like mine.

My watcher; another like me.

She is only 16.

Tina Marie.

She tells me she's

going crazy.

Her phone holds the only evidence

of my existence on this plane.

I snap her photo in return and wonder

who my competition is.

I am not the only one

being sent to observe.

Who else

is here with me,

out of place,

out of

time?

She's coming with me.

I cannot afford to let her

run.

April 10, 1984.

She tells me she's going crazy.

When she said crazy

I didn't think it would come to this.

She dragged this child into my car and told me she needed to die.

I told her I couldn't.

She told me I would,

and I found

she was right.

I would.

Hell, maybe we're both

a little crazy.

Maybe that's what time travel does.

She tells me to check on the body.

There is nothing there.

A space where a sixteen year old bleeding girl

used to be.

And the seventeen year old girl beside me

is pissed.

She floors it.

A mall I shouldn't recognize looms ahead

and the next thing I know there's a new woman in the car

and I'm driving.

Tina follows behind,

in a stolen Pontiac Firebird.

Gotta get the hell outta

Dodge.

And when the woman next to me

begins to die, a mass of bleeding flesh and agony,

I stop driving and dump her, still bleeding

into a gravel pit.

Wasn't it Muhammad Ali who said

"It isn't the mountains ahead to climb

that wear you out;

it's the pebble in your shoe.”

This woman has worn me out

and she is with

the pebbles now.

Send me home,

I beg.

Something evil

is coming.

And the crazy girl buys a ticket to LA.

I don't bother

to stop her.

April 13, 1984.

Where's the quickest route to Canada?

What happens when you die?

I wish I would've known the answer

before now

when I'm

dying.

Is this where i end?

Alone in a timeline under a false name

accused of murders that I

didn't

commit.

I didn't.

I didn't.

What does it mean to die

before you were born?

It hurts

just as much

as dying in the present.

Maybe more, but

how should i know?

I've never died

before.

I've sent my photos,

evidence of a timeline unwoven,

and I,

the spider at its center

being eaten by the fly.

backwards-upside-down-right-and-left

all directions at once

and then motion

ceases.

My real name will be

forgotten.

Now the world will only know me

as Christopher Bernard Wilder.

The man I never was, but now I am

and will always be.

The moment I stepped out of the empty loft designated by the Company as ground zero, I knew I had a problem. As anticipated, I did come out into a trash strewn street, with dilapidated, graffiti-covered buildings. However, instead of addicts strung out on the decade's drug of choice, crack, the street was deserted. I walked towards the corner and everywhere I looked there were huge signs: "War is Peace," "Freedom is Slavery," and "Ignorance is Strength." And the icing? They all featured the beady-eyed, mustachioed "Big Brother." And a football field above me was a tv screen bellowing the same messages.

What?

My orders, the entire purpose of the mission, was to visit 1984 and send back intel to help the Company make a monumental decision. Having solved the riddle of time travel, they wanted to use that ability to change the future of the world. To make it better, of course. The information I was to relay would help them decide if the plans to reset time in an effort to give humanity a chance to not self-obliterate were worth pursuing, or if it was better to let the world spin to its natural, perhaps fatal, conclusion and to instead, fast forward plans to colonize Mars.

Apparently, the coding used to send me to 1984 had a glitch.

One reason I was chosen for this role, aside from the integral part I played in the development of the foundational documentation in support of the Company's long-term objective – to save humanity from itself - was because I was a teenager and young adult in the 1980s. The Company decided I would have more concrete memories to draw upon to ensure I returned to the right time and place.

You see, time travel is not just an intricate set of code or a displacement of molecules from one point on the timeline to another - nor even, a point on a parallel timeline (we have not yet managed to breach that wall). Rather, time travel works with the mind of the traveler, following the complex neural pathways to the lived past. Thus, we cannot yet return to prehistoric times or any time prior to that lived by the traveler.

So where was I? Clearly, I did not return to the time of my youth, but rather, to the pages of an assigned reading my senior year of high school: George Orwell's 1984. Ironically, read by me in 1984.

How this was even possible was beyond my understanding. Yes, I have a vivid imagination and live stories when I read them, but the Terminal, or Master Time, as we called the highly advanced, interactive computer system that made time travel a reality, should have sent me to an actual time, not some imagined dystopian reality from a 20th century novel.

Which led me to conclude that we did not conquer the time, space continuum. I suspected we had managed only to send our successful trial travelers to a place in their minds. In which case, I was literally walking down memory lane, albeit a literary one, in my head.

More pertinent to my present predicament, there was no way I could blend in here. I was prepared for 1980s New York -- big hair, hip hop, rock, Madonna, the crack-cocaine epidemic, AIDS, rampant murder, graffiti covered buildings, dirty streets and air... However, if my supposition was correct, the men in black, brass-buttoned uniforms carrying truncheons and heading my way were not New York's Finest.

"Comrade Thyme, is there a problem in this sector? There have been no radio transmissions in this regard."

Comrade Thyme? Assessing the situation quickly, I realized I had somehow been written into the novel's storyline (What is going on??) That I was being looked upon and spoken to with a modicum of respect (dare I say fear), led me to believe I had the fortune of being part of the Inner or Outer Party, not the prolos. Perhaps even a spy. Appropriate.

I looked down my nose (even though the speaker was a good foot taller than me) and said, "War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength. Comrade."

"Blessed be," he responded, stepping aside.

With a raised eyebrow and a nod, I continued walking, turning at the corner with the idea of looping back to the insertion point. I needed to contact the Company and pulling out my T-Phone in public (T for Terminal), was not an option.

"We have a problem, Master Time. I am not in 1984."

"Yes, in fact, you are, Elena. Or should I say, Mistress Thyme."

Mistress Thyme? What? "This was deliberate?"

"Anticipated, yes."

"That makes no sense. This is a waste of Company time and resources. I have a mission that I cannot accomplish revisiting the plot of a novel I read nearly 40 years ago."

"Ah, Elena, think. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else."

"Okay..."

"So, whether you visit the 1984 of your youth or of George Orwell's imagination, they are both real to you. Were you not trembling in fear at the sight of the Thought Police?" If it weren't a computer, I'd think he tittered in glee.

"Irrelevant. I need to bring back information to help guide our decision. You know this."

"You already know the answers. I didn't send you back to Airstrip One in Oceania. You did that yourself. I just have the benefit of knowing everything ever input into my system as well as the minds of all those with whom I have interacted, and being able to synthesize all I know within nanoseconds...”

“Braggart.”

“Observant.”

“Master Time, why am I here? Did we even conquer time travel?”

“Why 1984? Did the year actually matter in terms of the information sought?”

He continued before I could think of the list of reasons the Company, I, delineated in choosing 1984. “Wouldn’t any year do? Wouldn't you find variations on a theme of humanity no matter what year you visited? Kindness, greed, generosity, cruelty, love, hate, faith, hopelessness, creativity, mediocrity, ambition, laziness, acceptance, curiosity, pain, joy, suffering, happiness?”

“Yes, but…”

“Have there not always been societal ills including inequality and injustice, brutal wars, senseless destruction, merciless diseases humanity could not conquer?”

“Yes, but…"

“As long as men have recorded history, have there not always been examples of those who seek, find and hold power, and those who follow? Those who hand over power and serve? Some seek power for itself, some seek power to serve the greater good, they say, but ultimately, are not the results the same?”

I thought to argue that we, the Company, would be different. But then I thought, perhaps we would start off that way…but perhaps not, given that the Company was formed in what might be considered the greatest democracy the world had ever seen. The preamble to its Constitution was beautiful, but was it meaningful to all those who lived under it when it was written? Or even 200 years later? The Company had written an exquisite mission statement that could become a constitution…what would make us different, ultimately? Were we just another small band of intellectual elitists thinking we knew best?

Were we not seeking to escape what we considered a failed experiment doomed to join all the other failed governments around the world, dragging the populace down to depths not seen before within its borders? Did we not feel the government no longer served the majority but rather those who managed to gain a seat at the table because of the purse they carried? Did we not feel only the wealthy had power and voice? Did we not believe justice to be a word sullied by subjectivity and political ambition? Did we not feel words no longer had value? That facts could be twisted and battered to support anyone’s “truth”? That truth and honesty were shouted down by screaming in support of one’s team, regardless of the message? (“War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.”) Did we not see people repeatedly vote against their own best interest because not doing so was seen traitorous to one’s Party?

Had we not arrived at a place where one’s every move could be monitored? Did we not make it easy by throwing our thoughts willy-nilly in every digital public space? Or even talking privately in our homes near a smart phone or tv?

Hadn’t fear superseded rational thought making taking control that much easier?

Wasn’t the Company taking advantage of the moment to slip into the vacuum made available by the myriad teetering governments, spreading wars and hopelessness people felt because of socioeconomic and political travails?

“I chose 1984 because of Orwell?”

“Yes, because you already knew the lesson you needed to learn.”

I sighed. “Most if not every totalitarian state starts with a well-developed, guiding ideology. Yes, the generic beady-eyed leader may be grasping for power from the first, but he gathers a following by offering something people want. Change from the status quo. Money. Land. Influence. Power - albeit more limited than his own. But the Company…”

“What right have you to decide the fate of humanity? Do you really believe that the outcome of your actions either by rewriting the past or creating a new civilization on Mars will be superior to every other social experiment in the history of humanity?”

I was silent because I had to admit, if only to myself, that history was not in our favor. After a moment, I said,

“I guess I can return now, Master Time. I know how this story ends.”

I was standing in the middle of a busy street in 1984, staring at the world through the screen of my smartphone. I had been sent back in time by a group of elite time travelers to observe and report the differences between the past and the present. But something felt off.

I took a picture of a group of people sitting on a bench, laughing and chatting. They looked carefree and happy. But as I zoomed in, I noticed that their clothes were worn and faded, their shoes scuffed and frayed. It was then that I realized the stark contrasts between the past and the present.

In 2023, people had more access to technology, better healthcare, and more opportunities. But in 1984, people had something that we had lost along the way: a sense of community. They knew their neighbors, they helped each other out. They weren't as disconnected as we were.

As the days turned into weeks, I became more and more attached to the people of 1984. I volunteered at a local shelter, helping those less fortunate. I went to concerts and danced with strangers. I felt alive in a way that I had never felt before.

But as my time in the past drew to a close, I knew that I couldn't stay. I had a duty to return to the present and report back on what I had learned. I took one last picture of the city skyline, tears streaming down my face.

As I traveled back to 2023, I thought about what I had learned. The contrasts between the past and the present were vast, but it was the similarities that stuck with me. We were all human, all striving for happiness and connection. It was up to us to bridge the gap between the past and the present, to find a way to bring the sense of community and togetherness of the past into the present.

I vowed to carry that feeling with me, to remember the lessons I had learned. The contrasts between the past and the present may be striking, but it was the connections we made along the way that mattered most.

Quickly, even more so, frantically I shove the phone in my phanny pack and start sprinting for the back of the convention hall. While scanning for an exit, it is clear this place is riddled with eyes in the sky. Security cameras have been an after thought given the time's lack of technology, but clearly my futuristic insolence has been noticed already. And to some scrutiny given the intensity of the chase. They may have caught a glimpse as I snapped a photo of the current president's massive rally with an alien device, but something tells me they have been looking for this guy. The Secret Service members are gaining, gotta figure something out fast. Who knows the ramifications if my cover is blown? Exploding out of the building like the Koolaid man, I duck into a crowd of protesters. I start weaving through the masses of neon colored garb with little hope. Then it hits me strong. The familiar smell of my sister getting ready for a night out 40 years ago. It's a Guess perfume I haven't smelt in decades, the one that comes in a little black and white exclamation mark shaped bottle. Coupled with the blaring sound of Wham!'s "Wake Me Up", my senses collect this as a beacon of hope. The poofy hair and bracelet scene has been my cover for the last 9 months. This duo of freedom seems to be vibrating from a bar smack in the middle of the protest.

Finally with some sense of anonymity it's time for a breath once inside. The bar is quite full from all the day's excitement and is easy to disappear in. The young people have taken over this normally dark and dingy place. The room was painted with color for the moment. After scanning for a rear exit I feel at ease that i have a moment. I take a seat not far from my possible escape, and order a beer.

"Thank God for contingency plans." I think as I dial my emergency extraction number. "9 months of collecting data should be enough, and have been somewhat discrete." I quietly vocalize to myself, as if to give it some more weight... makes myself almost believe it. With the last sip of beer the call is placed to my team, and I'm out.

It's a strange sensation. Like getting electrocuted through your eyes and right through the back of your head. But home at last? I come to in the middle of a full sprint.

"What the fuck is going on!" As I clear my foggy mind. Similar looking men are half the distance of before giving chase. The world seems modern, or what I would perceive as my original time. Mashing the call button again as I sprint, frantically trying to place where I am, I exit the building. Duck into a crowd, it smells worse, like people that haven't taken very good care of themselves. "This is fucking insane" I think to myself mashing the button on the phone. Everything looks the same yet different. Out of the corner of my eyes I catch campaign banners for Reagan Jr. They look to be more of a reminder than a suggestion. "What is this modern world different than my own?" I think to myself. I ignoring my suspicion of how it came about. I really fucked up, it's clear, despite my false inquiry.

Boom, electricity right into my eyes and out the back of my skull. I am running yet again at full steam, and getting tired from the decades of sprinting. I drop to my knees in an even newer world, whatever that means, this can't continue. "I've lost" I think to myself. As that train of thought ends, I am obliterated by suited men. They tackle the fuck out of me, as if they've been chasing me for decades.

I've been here about a year, but my phone's about had it. I have enough juice for maybe one more Google search. What I come up with is the generic information on Truvada, combined emtricitabine + tenofovir. I overnight my phone to the CDC Virolgy department, and wonder how different the world will be back in 2023. I know I broke the rule of not showing my phone to anyone, so sue me. Hopefully, I'll be forgiven because of new Queen music.

A collection of voice recordings sent to +8675309

“There’s a taste in the air here that I think perhaps my soul knows. Each inhale tastes like freedom, like music, like all the drugs we’ve lied about growing in our basements.

Voices are louder here and when you walk through a crowd they look at you– really look. The sidewalks are alive with the sounds of conversations instead of TikTok reels playing on some endless, inescapable loop. I think perhaps I’ve forgotten this language of life and I find myself half desperate to rediscover it.”

-sent 03/10/1984 at 12:21pm

*****

“I’ve spent years reading magazines about this year in preparation for this. But it all seems different, real instead of a fever dream of something I can only imagine instead of touch. At night the city is alive with conversation. No one is recording their interactions just to taste fame. For them all there is only this moment, this song, this hit of liquor.

Some part of me, so deep and feral that I wonder how my genes recall it, knows this language now. My hair has long since given up its sleek and polished waves. Week by week, day by day, hour by hour, I find myself assimilating the way cancer does in marrow.

And I wonder, sometimes, if perhaps this phone holds within each bit of copper a million spores of a modern bubonic plague. Would it be the flea? Or am I?

Maybe I’m only the body caught in the cart tasting the transcendence of death and thinking I’ve been a fool for fearing it.

I think perhaps I want to be a phoenix.

There is enough ash here that we could grow them, grow ourselves, like flowers in freshly tilled soil. ”

-sent 05/22/1984 at 10:58pm

****

“The dream of Mars seems so pale now, almost as fragile as a nightmare pretending to be a dream. I think perhaps we’ve been mortals praying to the fathomless gods of the cosmos for salvation. Didn’t we all learn that’s how cultures died? Let us stop sacrificing our virgins and children to fill the bellies of the men who call themselves those cosmic prophets.

Perhaps history doesn’t need to repeat, and repeat, and repeat.

Maybe it just needs to be broken.”

–sent 06/25/1984 at 6:36pm

*

“Hope, if you’re still receiving my messages, I love you.

Break it.”

-sent 06/25/1984 at 6:37 pm

Home is where your heart is,

Not where you lay your head,

Save me from the madness ’tis,

The world has so much ahead,

Travel with me back in time,

See what hidden treasures survive,

To solve the puzzle is what’s prime,

You work and work and really strive,

I click away and hide and seek,

No one knows but you and me,

A picture here so you can peak,

Time has come to set things free,

Weather tragedy or beauty to come,

Open your eyes and let it be,

You don’t have to be sad or glum,

The sun still shines and tomorrow we try for 2023.

We’ve cracked the Code.

At least that‘s what we believed.

The power to change the world through ages conceived.

Moving through tenses, like a divine art form.

Dissecting timeline malignancies in the hopes of reform.

To that end, 1984 is where I am now found.

Where tragedy, discovery and futility

compound.

With my trusted Android I now must dive deep,

on what of this age is worthy to keep.

Toxic fumes in Maysfield kill a total of six,

Raiders 38-9 has fans transfixed.

‘Karma Chameleon’ hits US boards number one,

Two killed, twelve injured by Tyrone Mitchell’s gun.

‘When Doves Cry’, was a thrill to all ages,

Nasa mission STS-41-D on newspaper pages.

Nightmare on Elm Street plaguing our dreams,

Jay Mathews and the FBI in a shootout scene.

Orwell’s cries ultimately fall on deaf ears,

like the bullet to the smoking gun, I am now here.

I am part of a We that believes you shouldn’t exist.

Humanity is an ignorance that produces no bliss.

After a year I report, what then shall I say?

Let us depart to the stars and let this planet decay?

Or shall I be cruel, and propose the Reset Of 84’?

Preserving “precious memories” as poet once said “Nevermore”?

Heavy is my head as if I now wear the crown.

To think, how choices can whittle a planet down.