When I’m alone in the last minutes of the universe, I will have tasked a nervous subroutine to choose ten memories for review before the end. It will present me with nine from my post-human life, but I will promote it to the status of domme-routine for the tenth. That moment in the back of that shitty car with him when the cell phone tower framed itself in the window like the three-pupiled eye of some galactic behemoth. That cell phone tower, one of millions of Earth’s early-cyberpunk metalhead piercings.