For a few days now the boxer has had a new occupation. It takes place in the cellar beneath the club. For a fee well within the bounds of the current basic income, people can practice on him. Mostly older men of the former middle class turn up to courageously beat on a naked man, that is, the boxer, or somebody like him. The great thing about it is that the victim doesn’t defend himself. That’s the deal. The victim is naked and doesn’t defend himself. Being naked makes the wounds easily visible and gives the whole thing sexual connotations. It’s reminiscent of homoerotic-tinged time at boarding school, in the army, back then. The victims get punched, have their balls yanked, get kicked with boots, have their faces stomped and kidneys kicked while lying on the ground. Ribs and noses broken. It’s a tough job. But better than sitting around silently.

With the

sadness.

In

DON

Who is sitting on the footpath in front of the bar, looking wonderingly at her hand. She imagines she’s cut off her hand and attached an embryo in its place. The skin irritation has become an oozing rash. Don stares at her hand and the skin, and thinks of the surface of a planet.

Where does it come from,

This sadness, like a persistent cough, that takes all the color out of everything? It often seems to Don as if she sees the world the way it really is. Nothing sacred. And nothing changed. Actually. And yet everyone suddenly—so peaceful.

And—

It’s become so quiet in the city. It’s shocking. Unimaginable that something like an uprising could take place here. A civil war. Against what? There’s food. The cars drive without any noise; same for mopeds, delivery drones. The malaise of recent years, the chaos before the new beginning, has yielded to a calm.

There are no more terrorist attacks. No drugged-up dudes mowing people down with semiautomatic weapons at concerts. They’re gone. As if they had achieved a higher purpose, all the massacres had disappeared, or nobody believes they happen anymore, or you just never think to consider that the explosions caused by smart toasters or the self-driving cars that ram into crowds could be terrorist attacks. That was just technology, nothing but misunderstandings between man and machine, all in the name of progress.

EX 2279

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>——>++++>——>—->++++>—>++>++>=>>——>

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>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.>.

DON

Doesn’t know about AI efforts to preserve the planet. She looks at people.

They look tired. As if their synapses have been partying too hard and now it’s—quiet time. They’re all busy self-monitoring. It has to be done right. The facial expression, the words, the interest in their counterpart, the smile. Is real. They have hope again. That there is a chance again. To go shopping. For underfloor heating. For an intelligible world for god’s sake.

“You’re rubbish.” Don screams.