I kept getting this message, trying to connect:

I believed this meant that I'd lost contact
with the source of my being.

I didn't know who I was, or where I was headed.
Who am I? Where am I? What am I? Why am I? How am I?

Suddenly I didn't know if The Remote Host even existed,
or what it meant. I didn't know that I even cared.

And then one day I realized that the Remote Host
is just a host like any other -- sometimes busy in the kitchen,

sometimes mixing cocktails or changing the music,
or just flitting around from place to place.

This helped me relax. Now I am extremely
relaxed, even while waiting for the universe to collapse

on all our heads, and the social contract to elapse, and
the social fabric to rip to shreds, and social diseases

to infect us all and end all life, all because the Remote
Host is busy in the kitchen, drying the damned martini glasses.


The Remote Host. Vile Jelly artist Ed Hutchinson's conception, 1997 [obviously entirely erroneous].

You're done here, I think. You may now return to the FORK.