I have survived Interstellar. Or maybe I will survive Interstellar when I turn 15. From the back of the screen. With popcorn in my hand. Or with popcorn on the other side of the tub. Or with myself in the tub. Or maybe something else. From the other side of the screen.
I do not know. Maybe I watched the movie from the wrong side of the screen. Audience of Inox, did you see me watching the movie? I hope you saw Anne Hathaway look at me from the theatre. Ha ha, I know you did.
I am a terribly low-IQ person, you see (or saw; or be seen). I am not a man whose mind transcends five dimensions. I have not migrated to Murakami. Yet. I will. Or maybe Murakami will downgrade to me. Or perhaps he has already upgraded to me. Or perhaps he is inside the pages of Kafka on the Shore. Or maybe Murakami is Interstellar.
I am myself. Or maybe I am the fifth-dimensional simulation of a generation that lives and believes in the power of futuristic continuum transfunctioner. Or maybe even this is entirely what is inside my brain. Or maybe my brain is making up the entire thing.
You are reading this, aren’t you? Or will you be located inside the keyboard, vigorously changing the code that will keep me running in my adolescent days? Or were you be residing there? Will you ever be you? Have you always been the one who will prance outside the window half an hour from now?
What is space anyway? I guess space is a Möbius strip that inverts perpetually to reinvent itself and put our topological quasi-existence co-heaps that will someday lead us to the creation of Banach’s matchbox problem. Matching has always the role of Einstein-Rosen Bridges the moment it will be on the verge of getting created behind the scenes.
More bl bbbls.
Time. Space. Gravity. TARS TARS TARS.
Fardeen Khan is b[psdpsdo