He took a look at the inside of his head, pretty solid...the real weather, cold slate sky, what a perfect night to go out, he thought...ahh but there's the rub...where to go? where wouldn't they be...where in the whole fucking world could he go that the spooks wouldn't be there, waiting, all moth-flamey, all hungry ghosty...dead eyes with the necrolight behind them. It was the same everywhere he went, it didn't matter if he was speaking to his old grandma, the checkout grrl @ the grocery or someone just walking down the street, they all had one goal, to be noticed, to be seen, felt...He knew the whole world hadn't turned, that the spooks weren't everywhere, but that they weren't about to simply let him go, point the way..."oh yah...go to Miami Beach, or Paris...we have no plans to go there"
He wondered, often , what they would do when there were no more jungle people left, when there was no one left to see them.
He thought if the planet could be viewed by an outside observer, it would see the human species become a colony of ants, blind and devoid of emotion. Without the "sleepers" they'll have no one to feel for them, they'll forget what an orgasm is like, become automatons to the machine.
In a few generations, he thought, things like music and art will become absolutely irrelevant.
It wasn't their fault, he knew it was military project gone wrong.
They had built the perfect control.
It was an absolutely exquisite, mind razor. He knew too, that it had unexpected results. No one wanted their personalities cut away permanently.
No one wanted to "know" that badly.
But meanwhile, they were obviously keeping themselves busy, using the sleepers like their own private gag-reals. It was easy to see mental patterns for them, to use the radio signals to literally manipulate what the sleepers were thinking, in what direction, and with what intensity.
It wasn't their fault, he knew, but they seemed like monsters to him.
After all, if he couldn't simply go out for a drink without hearing them in his head, listening to their vocal under-talk (a skill which apparently was one of the parting gifts for having one's mind raped), "going out for a fun time" had become meaningless.
He wasn't a true hermit by nature, he had been forced to become one.
There were moments he couldn't even stand to look at them, but it was because they used those moments to get inside his head..."make him curious" is what they called it. But they hadn't been truly successful in 100 years, he didn't understand why the continued trying.
He knew that behind each of them, the facade of them lay a guillotine, the program...ready to cut off consciousness and other functions the moment people were vulnerable.
They did not feel pity or love, they were semi-existent, psychological killing machines.
No, he would not go out tonight, nor ever again...until they let him return to the jungle.
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