Goodnight Moon

e.e. cummings, “my mind is” (excerpts from Tulips), Complete Poems: 1904-1962

George Orwell, whom I’ve dragged forward in time with my arcane powers because I’m lonely and want someone to talk to: You have a telephone in your pocket?  It listens to you all the time?

Me: Never mind about that, the point is, young people now mock each other by sending the wheelchair emoji - that’s a type of electronic heiroglyph - to suggest mental deficiency and shout SPESHUL!!!! while doing offensive imitations of disabled facial expressions and posture.  So any attempt to lexographically make crimethink impossible is pretty much doomed because the meaning of words in everyday conversation can’t be controlled by a dictionary entry, no matter how many Ministry of Truth employees-

I don’t think any piece of art has ever emotionally affected me the way this robot arm piece has affected me. It’s called “Can’t Help Myself” and it’s a robot arm that’s programmed to clean up the fluid that’s constantly leaking out of itself, that looked like a never ending flow of blood. It has programmed dance moves to make it appear to have human gestures. And at first, it seemed happy and proud of its job, dancing around when it had visitors. But three years later, it looks tired, hopeless, and like it’s living in a never ending cycle of constantly trying to put itself back together for the entertainment of other people. And when I found out that it had finally stopped working in 2019, essentially dying, I couldn’t help but imagine the relief it must’ve felt and so I’ve been in here crying over a robot arm. 🥺 It was programmed this way, it truly couldn’t help itself. And no one ever helped him, they just watched.