I am 91211.

It starts with this shed, a workshop where you flatten a channel of iron. The iron does rust, and you are to remain ignorant of improving it’s lot with the science of alloys or electroplating, instead you remain a black smith of a drudgery in just plain force, filing with a mastery of the stroke of filing, a menial defilement and yet that status quo, of depreciation.

Any rebel is repremended, made to start all over again with a new channel. At the end of this hardship is the new you, a piece of worthless metal, not a harddisk or a computer but cheap steel with a number punched on it, 91211, that’s me ….

Later in life I just immersed that iron in electrolyte and watch it dissolve for ever into watts of electricity, it had ended, that me in a flat of iron, gone for ever into the waiting world, the usb cables and the computing.

While I remain transcendental to that meger number, in a vast realm of light and Shambhala. Metal is so much more than that drudgery in nilism, it is permanence in a Shangri-La where people smelt alloys in a better atomic science and a thermal science.