She sits, weighted like a Rembrandt still life, gazing out past the evening rush hour traffic. Shoppers descending around cafes like machine dreams descending around a core of tightly wound circuitry. Frozen chaos, at least in a nonlinear sense. Their individual reasons for their seemingly chaotic paths around fellow pedestrians and other urban traffic are like an example of epitaxial growth; the pedestrians followed complex patterns that mimicked the molecular nature of the concrete. The concrete’s external memory would be able to reproduce and compare their intended and actual paths, filing away their movements into a subnet of urban traffic patterns. The concrete will use each epitaxial layer as a Boolean template from which to rebuild itself every night. A living breathing creature, an invisible computer.
The disconnect between my hand and the skin of her cheeks was akin to a static discharge. At the same time I realized that it was not me who was urgently meant to find and meet someone, it was one of the AI’s subprograms that was meant to urgently find and meet me. Sometimes it happens, within my dream sequences some sCM signals would get crossed with other subroutines and I would find myself acting out processes that should have been reserved purely for construct-essential programs. Of course in real life I wouldn’t use sCM, but within my dreams it has proved to be a useful tool for steering events.
“I see,” she said noncommittally, “tell me, why do you think you always meet me in your dreams?”
I honestly had no idea.“Perhaps we were meant to meet in real life, but it just hasn’t happened yet,” I offered.
“Interesting. Let me put it this way: you know how you always watch people’s reflections in the puddles, how you always want to touch them?”
“yes?”
“what would happen if you could touch them? Touch their reflections, what would that mean?”
“I suppose that would mean that they existed in some kind of a parallel universe thats visible through the puddle, or if not them, at least that their reflections existed in this other universe” this was all thoroughly confusing, but since I rarely spoke to her in my dreams, I tried my best to keep up.
“if only their reflections existed, then what was the object that created the reflections?” I wondered where this was leading, it did make a kind of sense, and I wondered whether the puddle somehow symbolized our “relationship”.“why, the other universe!” she exclaimed.
“so my dreams are the puddle – the portal between two universes, you are the reflections in the puddle then,”
“yes, you could say I am a girl in a fleeting universe – one you only see when you dream…”
“…one I can never touch?” I asked
“well, now that is why I wanted to speak to you on this occasion.”
