Untitled
Fifteen hundred and sixty nine years in the future, you will still be around. Well, most of you. Your nose will have been utterly consumed in someone's portable cold fusion reactor, on a camping trip in the Appalachians, where civilization can't reach. By now you will have intuited that acid is a bad trip and I have blown out what was left of my mind. Charlie ate many sugar cubes before dreaming of sardines in tomato sauce The future had been cool, all those anti-grav bras, electronic soup makers and - hey, stop interrupting me, I wasn't done describing what had happened to your body. Sorry about the acid rant, I get carried away from time to time. So you knows about your nose. Most of the rest of you seems like a dream about to become a nightmare. Growing parts out of your body that are ripe for the picking. So the nose had gone for 160 euros, the new one was already beginning to grow, there was a small bump like a tiny cauliflower he noticed just this morning, and he could probably get a lot more for it next time.
