Make an old you, the machine should have said. Be a guiding light to your future self, where the clean surfaces of your face no longer exist. Don’t forget the crowd inside your little booth. Things get crazy out there, and they get crazy in here too. On the outside you have liquid you can light on fire, a million fingers leaping and gripping in unison, one chalice invaded by one singular beam of moon-light. Many legs crossed or knees touching. So much advice given, so many steps outside where the smoke withers into many staring eyes, many eyes blinking, cutting each word. On the inside there is only a certain amount of space, two tones—orange or blue. Two screens, an interior, or lazy one, and an outer one that does all the work. There is a mouth that you feed, and it is very picky. There are many ways you can place your face on the inside and no one is watching. No legs are crossed in your direction, no liquid passes through. It is just you and your family of screens, your two tones and a face you can make four or five times. It’s much easier here on the inside.
