It sat in siege and stared across a beige and smooth-as-fungus plain. Like a
Tropic of Ombligo, you couldn't
rilly tell in or out. This was a consciousness in a
petri-disposal bin who'd wriggled
thru a Crack. Light from a microscopic
phosphorus fire temporarily
daylit the toxicity.
Minds of K's are cultured and ferment in avian jetsam that's dirty and fecund. They Know before they are even a cell. Their smells had already been borne across
millenia of yore. Soon they'd charge up and into a vat of synthetic porcine marbling and self-aspirate for tissue injection.
An awareness with carnal senses and a bird brain: a cloned consciousness is only inauthenic for the first moment, tho
mem'ry snot installed at any stage. "There is only one memory, one authenic moment," warble the K's: "that horny feeling pumping into flesh."
"Where K's Go, Disco"
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