Chessmate. Your move.

I have you where I want you 😈

Welcome, dear readers, to a zone beyond comprehension, where you are so in my thrall that you don’t even realize you’re in my thrall, living in a type of thrall Truman Show as it were, going about your day in my thrall, doing your little tasks in my thrall, eating and sleeping in my thrall, brushing your teeth in my thrall. If you knew how in thrall you were to my specific charms and whims and desires you’d be beating at the walls of your clear thrall prison, attempting to break through the thrall reinforced plexiglass, stamping thrall license plates for thrall ramen packets at the thrall commissary. Receiving thrall letters from well-intentioned progressive thrall citizens in the outside thrall world. Developing a romance with a thrall reporter coming to check on conditions in the thrall prison. Meanwhile I see and control all, your thrall God. But what kind of God would allow such suffering? Thus begins your descent into thrall depression. Thrall part of my grand design.

I’m playing a game that’s totally opaque to you, and even me. This is chess on many dimensions. Chess that expands into a tesseract. Even I can’t keep up with the rules of this chess. In this one, the queen can travel through time to any other previous turn and fuck shit up in that older turn, affecting the future. So that’s the kind of game I’m playing against you. And I have to say: Chessmate. Because I think I just made the winning move. Any questions?

And don’t go thinking about any of this, or what it means. Just let the newsletter flow over you like warm water. Sink gently into its cosseting arms. Sleep, my child. Sleep.

Nabeel’s Footnote

Peter Hummer thoughts?