[[[feed pulled from azimuth.excitement.rec, bump-author: {wh3atstat3_bon3crackr}]]]

The butterfly that flits about me is a real butterfly. Not a spybot or a weatherbug or a wireless node. The downy, pollinated tufts of the cottonwood trees aren’t laced with malign virus, are not Twittering about yields and densities to googol-sized datapods walking around on the other side of the planet. I cannot, for instance, open one of the seed pods and pull out a pair of socks.