These days ciberpunk.net posts by Shadow , Tetsuo and always look for Islands in the Net are making me more aware not say from what little I've read better, I've still got to read, what are shorter than the days and nights for the hunger that causes you to speak to you as succulent dishes. Certainly today in the subway, I had a disturbing vision that has made me remember the Cayce Gibson in Pattern Recognition (World mirror). For those who have not read (read that I will not gut anything), the protagonist suffers a sort of allergy from childhood that makes you have anxiety attacks at the sight of certain logos or signatures aesthetic fashion. Its weaknesses are Michelin and Tommy Hilfiger.
And is that the English firm Cortefiel , perhaps as a desperate appeal before sinking at all, have copied the aesthetics of ads Tommy those who remember the films in which a divorced mother arrives with her children to a peaceful, idyllic community in which they are all blond and perfect smile and false, because they have a chip in the brain that causes them to be controlled by a machine manages the evil mayor and do not drink or smoke, are submissive, only marry among themselves, the clothes are never wrinkled and it scares me. Well now made in spain. I worry a little, because these things spread. With this type of advertising now seems you can not be gay no not wear tank top. But is that just after Alonso Martinez metro with more ease than other days, I've seen one of those photos covering the facade of an entire building. If Cayce had been in my place would have fallen much struck by repeated had given a duck in the face at 300 km per hour (your exorcisms) and would have been in the state of the infected Snow Crash. these evenings is that hospital visit, so white, so cross, so nurse says sky every word and a half, and that light with only the sanatorium, it seems not, but something affecting. And of course, salts and any pictures you're scared. Although this hospital I go cool, because being an old building that have been added parts, has become a silent maze in which you do not know what you'll find when you turn every corner, if a wall, a staircase, a balcony, a nun or Jack Nicholson with a knife. The room seems to be looking for another dimension, because they are the 379 and 381 but what about the 380? In addition to having to move from an elevator in the future, just put to one that got when they built the old part, which falls apart, remember Ubik and begin to understand the idea of \u200b\u200bvending machines drugs. In short, a strange day.
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