On December 22nd of this year, as in others, you will be in full interaction and at all times accessible. A text window will pop up and you will touch it. The conversations had with Siri will be written into the fabric of this overcast sky, the pertinent bits of your processing will glow in sequence, These Thresholds Will Not Stand. Gray is even now no longer a subject of debate, inchoate mass though it sometimes seems to be. Turn on storage capabilities, create a folder for when this packet of silica gel is the kind you will be able to eat. Everything is archived, modeled on infinite capability, the spinning madness, the swirl and cesspool in the streaming commentary, trolls’ avatars dressed in delightful fabric pixels; you will feed on the newsfeed, Future Citizen of the Looming Tomorrow, and it will taste of agave syrup, overripe ambrosia, of fluffy cotton cloud, so many clicks away. Questions of the terrestrial sort seem to elicit a null response. The chronometers are fast at work inside their translation engines; there will be the search term to guide you no longer.