Exclusive: Lonely Billionaire All Bummed Out!

After his last disastrous gig, The Inventor, architect, engineer and patent-holder — his liability for which is pending,  according to his attorneys  — of Pandora’s Box, sought solitude and silence.

His next project, The Library of Babel, was at least critically accepted, and Borges sent him a share of his own royalties, though revenue from even an anthologized short-story can’t compare to the infinite helix of data contained within, and surging without,  the Library of Babel!

He needed something.

“I need something,” he lamented. “Some thing. Gee, but what?”

Again The Inventor sequestered himself, and again his efforts bore fruit, big fruit this time, bigger than the scion of 80th-generation-seed GMOs.

“This is a thing. This is a big thing,” The Inventor dictated to his box. “Scratch that. This is a huge, world-shaking,  mega-monster giggly-goodly god- damned thing!”

He bowed to the standing ovations of audiences who would soon not be imaginary.

“All you gotta do,” he began, but checked himself to get a grip, hold back the giggles, then the tears. He continued.  “All you gotta do… is plug the Library of Babel into a fucking wall!”

And so The Inventor  sparked a galaxy of screens with knowledge; entertainment; social networks; political journals; blogs; 24/7 extremist rants and cute cuddly animals with “Cheer up, enjoy your day!” messages available in every available language and format; Big Media Conglomerate Network’s (WBMC) News Comedy Music Idol  Sports Portal, and lots and lots of quality pornography

But still, the man who brought all the word’s knowledge to the User”s fingertips (but little, if any, wisdom, which said User, the undersigned, must select from the Library’s infinite collection of data at User’s own risk; The Inventor, Inc. assumes no liability for poor judgement) was alone — though in a much, much, bigger house — and tortured, tortured, tortured. Tortured by genius — or the odd, almost intangible remorse spawned by a well-intentioned but colossal fuck-up…

Letter from /dev/null: Once, I could barely walk. I lived, like a vampire, off strange blood. Too much suck, my hard-drive brimmed before I’d grepped to glean, sort, sift, digest; before I could process, to make sense clean, it was gone, all of it, extinct: memory. Loves distant as stars. If data travels at electric speed (so long as servers hum like clock-work: cleaned, tuned, Enlightened) what effect on works and days, and other presumptions of this, the Sixth Extinction? One day, new beings will evolve, perhaps from flies, a thousand eyes for every buzzing brain; incessant flight from this gross pile to that, no time to dream of dreaming. We’ve only got weeks, (relativity-ly speaking: so flies time). Why waste winged words in contemplation of the clock-tick? One must DO. Something. Ideally, perhaps, possibly, nothing at all. Yours, The Phantom of /dev/null Read other articles by Phantom.