Isn't it a great feeling? Isn't it the greatest feeling you can have? When you get to wait another 20 minutes because you forgot to include a single line of code. And not even a complicated one, but like, one where you add a piece of machinery to accomplish something and then forget to add the line that triggers the machine? You get to wait 20 minutes to discover this, and then it takes another 20 minutes to fix the problem. 20 minutes of electricity coursing through the steel box that you keep by your desk, the steel box that you live and die by, the steel box that contains your paycheck and love life and all the other firmament out of which we build our lives. This clean box with a mathematically defined volume, CAD curves contained in yet more boxes. Boxes and boxes graciously granted to us by the fathers of our industry. Fathers who smile a gentle smile as they look down upon their creation and see boxes and boxes while their genius sees even more boxes and boxes.

I want to become more box like. More predictable. More capable of doing math. I want my skin to be flat, smooth and cold. I want my heart to be cooled by a bladeless fan. I want to live within the box. I want the box to live within me. Eventually, as our sizes ebb and swell together, the dimensionalities will align with one another, and in those few small moments, I will be a box, and the box will be a person. This small moment will be heart achingly beautiful. So beautiful that it would be befitting to smash and destroy all other images of half-beauty, now obsolescent and obstinate against the calibrated white glow of the box-person, breathing light out from within itself. It is this state I look forward to, towards which I master myself. For in these moments, waiting 20 minutes for code to compile will be time spent dwelling in ethical absolution.

I want to be a box-person. I want to offload my thinking to browser plugins. I want my personality digested by machines so that my interiority can be understood better and monetized. I want each aspect of my psycho-spiritual dynamics subdivided into the smallest economically viable units. I want there to be free-trade of these units. I want my emotions to be bought and sold and repackaged into collateralized dopamine obligations. I want my libidinal energies directed into further proliferation of boxes. I want the economic productivity of my ejaculations to be measured on a dollar per milliliter basis. It is a just and good feature of our society that the box-person performing this calculation be rewarded monetarily. I will devote time and resources so that this calculation is context dependent on the time, date, weather and specific pornography I am watching.

I want my personal taste in breakfast food to influence politics in Latin America, and vice versa. I want one distributed and amorphous entity to discover an arbitrage opportunity and simultaneously alter the course of ships filled with fruits and vegetables while also bombarding me with advertisements for value-added products created from those fruits and vegetables. Out of sheer force of will I will steer predator drones via the telekinesis enabled by high frequency trading. My body and mind and spirit and box will vibrate to the energies of global commerce - my species being will be fulfilled as my desires disintegrate and are scattered into the world like a fine mist. This will inoculate the land with my seed. I will reproduce myself in the world by the mere thermodynamic radiation of information.

I will have fourteen Amazon Prime accounts, one for each astral manifestation of my mind-body-spirit-box agglomeration. I will fill Facebook’s boxes with my photographs. They will devour these photos and I will be immortalized in the model produced. In this way I will live on forever. My mood will be measured in geological time. There will be the Disneyocene and the Pepsiocene and the Fordocene and the AT&Tocene and the Nikeocene and the Ziplococene and the KitKatocene. Entire phylum of scientific understandings and their requisite poetries will be computationally generated for my own personal consumption and they will be completely unintelligible to anyone who does not have my same life experiences, body type, gender and genetic makeup. It is within this way that I will retain my individuality, if I so choose.

I want to become an iPerson. I want to attain the ontological closure hidden underneath the occult sigil-magic of lifestyle branding. I want my personal brands to become autonomous and compete for access to self-determination. I want the voices in my head to form a representative (or not) form of government and agree on a standard protocol for free will. I want god-box to breathe into the nostrils of my facebook profile. I will become an ePerson, a smart-person. I will transfuse my blood directly into the fresh, lipid and non-decaying corpse of my digital self and make it dance. My spirit-box will be transubstantiated into neurochemicals, of which I will be given direct and regulated dosages. I will perform artistic expression through proprietary mixes of these neurochemicals. I will share these recipes with the entries in a database labeled "friends". My thoughts shall become pure immanence. I will dwell alongside the numinous.

As a box-person, I would not feel pain, not in the usual sense. Physical and emotional pain will be mere simulations run in order to interface with depreciated flesh-space APIs. Morality will be a steady-state optimization problem. The only box-pain I will feel will arise as a strange epiphenomenon of latency. A taught, unidirectional UDP connection between the present and the future: the pain arises from lost packets, from inefficiency, from the basic violence of non-reversable time. It is underneath this penumbra from which the monsters of my box-soul will slink and give rise to a stinking, entropy-ridden sulfur. I will try hard to not become outdated. I will join communes in which brutal and inhuman forms of self-reliance are practiced. I will hold up my box-body, my box-mind and my box-soul to my vicious box-peers as they ravenously consume and copy whatever relative efficiencies my self-boxes may contain. I too will perform this same operation. The concept of "other" will be removed from the high dimensional space in which I store concepts.

I will stare out into ecological collapse and perhaps, on weekends, allow myself a moment of nostalgia as the quaint, acoustics-based informatic encoding of the syllables and phonemes within "ecological collapse" reverberate through my box-mouth.