To say what it is like is to make strange what is taken to be most familiar, but the idea of the familiar is not itself familiar and the strangeness doesn't need you to adopt an emphatic disguise. It is mostly like this, being jacked-in through every sense taking it in the rhythm of its responses as if they were all there was, these parallel filiations, the slide of meaning leaning along current shows, and here and there and everywhere only lift a finger to make the note that answers to the parts that are the last place you'd look so hidden they are in plain sight, or in slight pain, or plane site or polite strain and so on and on, the sprouts of multiplicity, of a bad infinity of variations going haywire on a low growling theme pressing into the tired flesh of the day, as if there was no the there, but switches and points and the whole system, dreams of my system, spreading like a blot in wet paper, all at the same time, the other one pushing through it with its whispering protest, enough, not enough, the dark and the light taking each other's place.