Doesn’t give a shit. That it’s dark. This life has never been a situation that has to do with the delighted experience of light or warmth or happiness. She’s not present in this existence. One could call it a vegetative state, or instinctive breathing. Not present. It is never warm enough.

And

DON

Is freezing. She had fallen asleep briefly and woke up again with a cold pizza on her face and had watched with half-closed eyes as the hackers took over control of the apartment of Peter’s mother. She wants. To be away. And sees herself.

From above,

One hundred thousand kilometers away. The earth floats in the so-called Milky Way. Named for: a chocolate bar made of palm oil and sugar. Don only takes the night flight. Piloting the earth by day means too much information. Spotting the continents and visualizing all the rubbish that goes with them. Is there no alternative? Mars, for instance; you could hunker down with Elon Musk there and listen to him moaning because he didn’t manage to pull off the whole immortality thing. “Yes, pink man, you’re getting old,” she would say. “And nobody will remember you.” “But I built cars. Look.” He would say. Men stand in front of the cars being built. Men in suits, with ties to hang themselves by, stand and shake each other’s hands; they’re the chairmen or CEOs, and they’ve just scuttled something again, or forgotten that you shouldn’t eat pesticide. Wonderful earth, the undulant forests, the luscious wetlands, and there was so much good, as well. So many amiable people, who stumble around helplessly in their humanity, who would really like things to be nice, comfortable, peaceful, until something else happens. That riles them up terribly. The poor people.

Says

EX 2279

Heartwarmingly. We must save them. From themselves.

++++++++++[>+>+++>+++++++>++++++++++<<<<-]>>>>+++++++++++++++++++.——————.—————.++++++++++++++++++.+++.<—.>—.—-.

HANNAH

And Peter watched the magic seconds of Thome’s life from a café. A light rain is falling. Perhaps it just looks that way. And Peter has been stirring his tea for hours at this point. Somebody outside has just died, and there’s nothing satisfying to show for it. There’s just horror, you don’t want to see death up so close, not know so explicitly what people are made of and how quickly they dissolve. And the tea is cold. And Hannah is sad. Why does she always think Peter’s kisses are too wet and his hands too moist? It was so nice, being in love, and now it’s fading, and Hannah doesn’t know why. Why did Peter the childhood friend suddenly become Peter who seemed to float in the air, and why is he now coming back to earth, seeming like a stranger, she has no idea.