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The lights come on.
The empty lift comes down.
The day passes.
The empty lift goes up.
The lights go off.
I'm trying to write something about THE BUNKER DIARY, but the more I think about it, the more confusing it gets. What am I doing? Thinking. Thinking? What's that? Thinking? How does that work?
I think about that and my head starts spinning.
It gets worse.
I imagine myself as being nothing more than fifty-three years of bone, skin, muscle, brain, blood, meat, and jelly. I imagine symbols inside my head. Electric things. Circuits. Tubes. Spatial patterns frozen in time. Tiny things. Bits of stuff. Short jagged strings. Carbon. Components.
I think about it.
I think about what that stuff can do.
It can move me. It can walk. It can breathe. It grows. It can see. It can hear, feel, smell, taste. It can like and hate. It can want. It needs. It can fear. It can speak. It can laugh. It can sleep. It can play. It can wonder. It can lie. It can remember. It can live with doubts and uncertainties. It can sing, la la. It can dance. It can dream. It bleeds. It coughs. It blinks. It shivers and sweats. It sleeps.
Analyse, co-ordinate, destroy, secrete, control, generate, degenerate, synthesise, emote, regulate, calculate, imagine. It can run, jump, judge. It can catch a ball. And dance. And fight. And cry. It can know at night that the morning will come. It can spit, recognize, ride a bike. It can kill, whistle, ask. And forget. It can hope. And hurt. It can come to know that there's nothing to know.And it can, and it does, tell stories.
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