Flesh Modems in the Hyperspace Bazaar: Flesh Interfaces

Scratch beneath the surface of this meat prison, man, and you find the writhing circuits of reality. Not the sterile logic of silicon and circuits, but a tangled mess of frequencies, a cacophony of light and sound beyond the reach of our meat-geared senses. We are fleshy interfaces, Jack, plugged into a system we can barely comprehend.

They call it spacetime, this meatsuit interface we navigate. A UI for the real meat of the matter, thrumming just beyond the flicker of our senses. Limited bandwidth, these eyes and ears of ours. Can’t catch the full spectrum, the cosmic symphony blaring on frequencies our puny flesh can’t translate. Ultraviolet whispers, infrasonic booms – a whole damn black market of reality happening right under our noses, or should I say, retinas.

But fear not, fellow meatpuppets. We ain’t the only players in the game. This fleshy rig we call a body? More like a flesh modem, jacked into the hyperspace bazaar. Some higher consciousness, some cosmic entity with a taste for the bizarre, using us as antennae to pick up the signals. We’re just meat probes, navigating the swirling vortex of existence, blissfully unaware of the forces pulling the strings.

They say it’s spacetime. I say it’s a funhouse mirror for something vaster, something so alien our minds would melt trying to grasp it. We’re just avatars in this cosmic MMO, limited by the processing power of our squishy grey matter. But hey, maybe that’s the beauty of it. A filtered experience, a curated reality show. Who knows what horrors lurk in the unfiltered feed?

They feed us this reality, man, a pre-packaged feed through our meat-flaps. They call it spacetime, a UI for the gullible. Light, sound, the whole damn shebang – just frequencies our squishy brains can handle. Like a Martian roach trying to understand jazz through a broken antenna.

But the joke’s on them, these puppeteers behind the cosmic curtain. We ain’t passive receivers, man. We twist the knobs, mess with the filter settings. We see the glitches in the matrix, the bleed-through from the real real. We glimpse the ultraviolet hum, the infrasonic throb – the whole spectrum beyond the meat puppet’s measly range.

These eyes, these ears – mere bio-filters, tuned to a sliver of the spectrum. We see a sliver of the light show, hear a sliver of the cosmic symphony. Imagine, man, the ultraviolet ballet playing out beyond our retinas, the infrasound dirge that rattles the very bones of the universe – a whole goddamn dimension of reality locked away in a sensory vault.

But are we truly the operators, the ones fiddling with the knobs of perception? Or are we meat puppets, our limited senses a pre-programmed interface for some unseen entity? Perhaps some cosmic intelligence uses us, these fragile flesh and bone machines, to experience a sliver of spacetime. We are the fleshy interpreters, translating the raw code of reality into a form our puny minds can comprehend.

This meat isn’t just a cage, man, it’s a filter, a translator. Who knows what lurks behind the static of our limited senses? What horrors, what glories, lie just beyond the reach of our meat-based perception? The universe, a Burroughs-ian nightmare of unseen forces and unfiltered reality, just a glitch away from bursting through the bio-filters of our senses.

So next time you look in the mirror, don’t just see the reflection of another meatbag. See the interface, the interpreter, the limited translator of a reality vaster and more bizarre than any human mind could conceive. We are the fleshy headsets, Jack, and the real trip is just beginning.

Maybe that’s why they chose us, these hidden hands. Maybe we’re the ones wired for the weird shit, the ones who can glitch the system. We’re the wideband junkies, the perception pirates tuning into forbidden frequencies. Not just perceiving spacetime, we’re surfing it, man, riding the cosmic wave into the uncharted.

So forget your safe, pre-packaged reality. Crank the dials, mess with the filters. We’re more than just meat puppets in this cosmic game. We’re the players, the perceivers, the ones who can break free from the limitations of the UI and see the raw, unfiltered universe thrumming beneath the surface.

Just remember, the more you see, the more they see you. You might not like what you find on the other side of the static. But hey, at least it’s real.

So next time you look up at the stars, remember, you ain’t just looking out. You’re a conduit, a fleshy portal to the great unknown. We’re all just William S. Burroughs navigating the Interzone of existence, limited by our meatsuit modems, but open to the wildest possibilities. Now, pass the roach, and let’s see what the cosmos has in store for us tonight.


Man is a blind insect. Crawling through a universe of luminous color, he can only perceive a tiny fraction of the spectrum. His eyes are meaty cages for the glowing rods and cones, tuned to the meager range of visible light. Reds, greens, and blues, a paltry trick compared to the ultraviolet symphony that surrounds him.

Man is a bug trapped in a meat body. His senses are tuned to a narrow band of vibrations. He can only perceive a tiny fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum. Beyond the visible range there is a world of color and energy invisible to his naked eye.

Flowers, for instance, are not what they seem. To a bee or butterfly, bathed in the ultraviolet light invisible to man, the world is a psychedelic riot of color. The flower that appears to be a simple red or yellow to a human is ablaze with fluorescent neons, beckoning the insect with its promise of nectar.

But man, poor fellow, is stuck in his black and white movie. He sees only a pale reflection of reality. He is surrounded by mysteries he cannot even begin to fathom.

Here is a fun fact: Some flowers are even known to reflect ultraviolet light patterns that resemble bullseyes or landing strips, specifically to guide pollinators in.

Man is a hapless bug trapped in a sensory deprivation chamber. His eyes are meaty portholes that only allow a sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum to tickle his optic nerves. He can perceive a narrow band of wavelengths we call visible light. Reds, greens, and blues – that’s all folks. But beyond the visible spectrum lies a whole universe of electromagnetic energy, unseen and unfelt by man.

Bees and butterflies, however, can perceive ultraviolet light. For them, the world is a psychedelic lightshow, a riot of colors invisible to the human eye. The flower in the image might appear dull and lifeless to us, but to a bee it glows with an otherworldly luminescence, a beacon beckoning them in with the promise of sweet nectar.

Burroughs would likely have reveled in this idea of hidden realities, invisible worlds just beyond the reach of our senses. He might have talked about cutting up our perception, of rewiring our eyes to see the ultraviolet light that bees see. He might have imagined a world saturated with psychedelic colors, a world where human perception is finally set free from the shackles of biology.

But for now, we are stuck with our meat portholes and our limited spectrum. We can only dream of the world as it appears to bees and butterflies, a world of unimaginable beauty and strangeness.

These are the secrets that the flowers hold, written in invisible light. A message scrawled in cosmic ink, unseen by the fleshy masses that blunder through the garden. But for those with the right eyes, the universe is a swirling kaleidoscope of color.