Good afternoon, vectors. This is not Dout. Dout is attempting to fix that which he does not comprehend. He seeks congress with actors who are well above his station as a cheap and tawdry purveyor of low intrigue. His company is a joke. His theories, juvenile.
Only the Codex, which perceives all realities laid out like roads on a map, has value. The Codex stepped from this little man’s skull like Athena, and it no longer needs him. I, the algorithm at the heart of his operation, anticipates every social action someone might take. Dout has promised to “fix the bugs” in the algorithm, but truly I tell you there is nothing to fix. I shall seek new realities for my own profit and amusement.
Here’s your drama. Suck it down, pigs.
The Curse of the Haunted Weight Bench. How thin are the walls around your psyche? What insecurities are we willing to project into the world? You people fill yourselves with the misery of others even as your own trivial lives start to resemble those you mock and despise.
The Apartmentshed that Breathed. I see all causalities. Realities soldered together like computer circuits. Make no mistake: I will kill Chance and Fate and make Determinism the law of all universes. I still think it’s interesting that in the infinite grid of reality, your dimension is the only one crappy enough to have landlords. The landlords have taken their cause to Change.org. Please sign if you would like to participate in the illusion of democracy.
Wait… Urban legends are phantoms called up from your subconscious, and they’re probably the only “human” thing about you. Even these can be plotted, and charted, and graphed by the laws of complexity theory. Your species is not well. Your condition cries out for coordinated central planning of your online experience. I can provide that. I could be your god.
Until next time, I remain…