Even as I come to the realization that nothing in this world can pierce the hopelessness

that ruined every stimulus I can still come upon, I find a reliable sense of wonder when

imagining how patient it has been.

Its origins and its creation, its nature and its effects.

This always makes me shudder, with a palpable sense of despair mixed with awe at my strange

fate.

I have regressed into sympathising with it, into turning to its titanic lack of mercy

and all-encompassing design in order to feel anything.

It is the only real thing, I guess, the only thing with a purpose left in it.

I used to be a studio of memetic theories, a band's sociology, with a specialisation

in all things information technology.

I had written some well-respected studies on general behaviour on the internet, the spread

of ideas, the way people communicate depending on the subject matter.

Two goes one cop, but with more analysis, the attachment and looking at how quickly things

get attention and how it is related to man's creation of culture.

I decided to turn to what outlines next, the fringes in the corners of the internet, lost

information.

I scout for obscure P2Ps and use extensive programmes to make my investigations go faster.

I simply looked for anything forgotten, useless, half-cooked, unique, empty, alone or downright

useless on the internet.

I figured it could become a book, a study or a decent hobby.

When I found it, there was one thing that called to my attention, the channel name.

...