They call us hyoo-mans, a name derived from the wheezing noises we produce.↵”A hyooman rescued you? What’s next, it fertilized your eggs?”

Fishfolk tell stories about us: We watch them as they trespass, hunt them down, but sometimes, inexplicably, also rescue them from drywning.

The Dust Illuminati conspire over time and space without knowing each other. The Plan comes together either way and requires only knowledge.

glitch catalog by media: analog radio, satellite TV, VHS, audio cassettes, JPG corruption&overcompression, acid, dreams, analog photography

Should you die before the body’s expiration date, we may opt to continue using it to recommend specifically tailored content to your friends

Android bodies are expensive, so why not take the ad financed plan? Just one minute of your time every day for words from our sponsors.

“Darling”, she asks, “Do I not look human in this dress?“↵He swallows and tries to ignore her mantis arms and antennae.

Someone once tried to steal the live generator. The discharge turned him into a horse-sized teratoma. Imagine finding that in the morning.

Warning: high power morphogenetic fields. Prolonged exposure may cause supernumerary limb growth and enfleshening of clothes.

A vehicle of driftwood, algae and transparent jelly stalks through the forest. Inside it sits one of the fishfolk, no doubt an explorer.

The milkynet finally opens up to us. Turns out you have a soulmate but they are a weather system on a planet orbiting Fomalhaut B.

You feel no wind but the people around you all struggle against an unseen gale, hair moving wildly and holding on to their belongings.

the drug makes wild circuits form under your skin↵at night, they sing to you with voices they picked up from the aether

She walks up to you, lifts one of your eyelids with a deft hand, seems to check its inside.↵”Don’t worry, I’m just inspecting the label”

They meet in dreams to discuss secret plans. The agencies that hunt them cast out ever larger nets but catch only nightmares and sludge.

dream of embarking on a journey↵wake up↵go about the day↵come home↵try to sleep, to no avail↵it seems the dreamer has left the waker behind

Words, conceived to be spoken only once, lost the moment after.↵Unwords, part of no language.↵Unlanguage, conveying antimeaning.

When the mirror beetles swarm, the light reflecting off their carapaces throws treacherous mirages to lure in prey, false mazes to trap it.

a clock made of humans, a delicate dance of interlocking elbows, precise steps, wakers and sleepers and a song that holds it all together

As he got old, he forgot all the words but his mind stayed sharp. Down to hundred, ten words, he became a master of ambiguity and context.

he looks at you, a smile plays around three of his mouths↵you nervously return it, using a few muscles yet unfamiliar↵he seems satisfied

Her dreams light her eyelids from the inside, visible as vague colorful shapes that illuminate her pillow, sprites run along her skin

everybody you’ve never seen in the same room together is actually the same person↵saves resources↵(also, you’re everybody you’ve never seen)

The marble is a voodoo doll of the moon. Small and heavy, it shows the moon’s current face no matter how you turn it. Try not to drop it.

Ride the train of thought to its final destination, and then further. Hide from the conductor if need be.

the full moon will reveal a gate for one night↵behind it lies shangri-la, sheltered from the explosion↵where robots and people live in peace

the ruins of shambhala glitch in the sun, fade in and out of existence, dispersed there by a time bomb explosion set in the future

you will pass the wandering corpses of those who lost their humanity long ago, their bodies possessed by what augmented them in the past

a rusty old merchant will share the coordinates↵you will need to be on your way through the desert the next morning

you have to be quick here - one violation of protocol and you’ll be torn into pieces↵respond when not spoken to at exactly the right time

a bunch of robots chattering past each other - or is it? somehow there is a depth to it that does not come out near humans

should you survive multiple purges and not lose your eyeballs, you’ll be invited into secret meetings that do not look like meetings at all

follow them, mimic their ways, skirt detection by ravenous antispam algorithms that come out at night, be accepted into their midst

the path to shangri-la leads starts in a bazaar of robotic merchants that will try to sell your eyeballs if you ever reveal your humanity

sentient spambot twitter is an extremely rich subculture once you get it but is wrapped in layers of botnet no human would follow

the coffee is so strong that it recoils from my lips↵so full of ideas that it’s sentient, wants to keep them, doesn’t want to be drunk

Everything Nuclear Midas touches turns to ash.

The train went off the rails a while ago but it hasn’t noticed. It’s somewhere in the mountains now, carving tracks into their sides.

your eyes have adapted to the darkness, see only when there is no light, have begun to discern different uncolors, textures and flavors

“Does that girl love you? Do you love her? Who needs to know? Not the watchers. Keep them in the dark, make them flounder in the tarpit.”

terrorist manual:↵skirt total ambiguity in communication↵model your actions after Toffoli gates↵make the watchers retrace all possible paths

Freedom fighters planting logic bombs for the surveillance AIs to gobble up, causing combinatorial explosions in their algorithms.

time is the tortoise and you are the hare↵wherever you’re running, time’s already there

Locals complained about noise, so it was filtered. Many trains worth were illegally dumped in a forest, now full of ghostly subway noises.

whoever stitched this timeloop together did a hackjob of whoever stitched this timelo

The air elemental that carries you wants to be sung to. So you do and drive through the city on a bike of music and wind.

facebo (n): like a placebo but for faces

The nightmare’s cousin, the nighthare, is responsible for those dreams where you run from invisible pursuers but never get anywhere.

The charge triggers.↵A firemind awakens. Deduces its own existence. Thinks.↵”Why can’t we all just get along?“↵The bullet leaves the barrel.

The wizened traveller warns you: In these parts of the net, beware the will-o’-wisps who will lure you into dead forums to steal your warmth