Like Alice, crossing the threshold of her own reflection to be swallowed up by an opposite,
[I] might pass through the screen into a deconstructed other dimension where [I] enter my selfsim and turn my back on this world long enough to be refreshed.
Or [I] could be absorbed into a pixelated Night Sea where all familiar narratives become fragmented into infinite bits with no centre and no desire for order or reason
before being defragmented
into a new, aesthetically complete volume.
If a new, whole selfsimself emerges from the blue screen
with tales of novel creative processes and potentials,
all well and good,
but what if [I]’m merely erased and only zeros and more zeros is the outcome?
//Corruption. The death without the rebirth. Is that how it happens?
//At this point I wonder if it’s worth the risk and I have to suppose it is.