Do I feel guilt? Do I feel shame? If so, why? Am I really getting away with it? Sometimes, I thank the Racing Gods for making me inept with the whole romance/relationship/sex bit. I wonder how I could have dedicated myself to all this online simulation racing bullshit if I had been lucky in love.
The Outside World relentlessly programs me, but I also persist with my own coding. I keep saying to myself that I am borne of the Wild Country, that I am safe and ahead of all the malware generated by these sickly sycophants surrounding my Self. This Failsafe Device requires that I remain vigilant.
Good luck with that. You know the monster Feargrin grows beyond than the capacity of his cage. Vainglory's severed head continues to send command lines. Foolhardy still broadcasts on the public address. Quacksalver quibbles like an interlaced ghost. Only Automaton shows signs of deterioration.
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