To: Marcosa, Brian - Master Architect, Somnesthia Division 

From: The Dream Operations Metrics Subcommittee & Awards Program

Subject: Performance Review 

Date: DAY 87, 0001 Æ

Dear Brian, 

Your Unconscious Productivity (UP) dream metrics have been calculated for Q3 of 2025. We are pleased to inform you on your selection as Architect of the Quarter.

You will find a QR code attached. When scanned, it will grant you access to a digital coupon redeemable for one (1) 30,000 square foot, 16-bedroom, 16-bathroom Tudor-style estate, complete with 600 acres of self-healing wilderness and a chlorine-free pool filled with the Water of Eternal Life. The home resides in your assigned sector of Somnesthia and includes optional infinity-loop valet parking.

We recognize, as a Master Architect, you could easily manifest this yourself. Nevertheless, the team insisted on giving you something from us. Consider it a curated gesture of appreciation, rendered in dream-legal stone and gratitude-coded timber.

In addition, we are pleased to inform you of your salary increase of 50%. This increase will begin this pay period. This will sit atop your existing salary of $ ∞ / you, compounding into meta-infinity. Please reach out to Payroll if you experience existential vertigo. 

Congratulations Brian, you deserve it.

With calibrated warmth,

The Dream Operations Metrics Subcommittee & Awards Program

Antidrome.com

Your Dreams Will Build The Future

This note will self-implode into an antiquark in 5 seconds and be filed in the Hadron data server. 

A copy will be sent to Human Resources.

It had been a long quarter. 

Brian had never ‘worked’ so hard. Over the last four months, he had become exhausted from all the Unconscious Productivity he had put in. The ergonomics of his posture during dream hours were also something left to be desired. He’d discovered sleeping flat on his back, while propping a pillow to angle his neck either too far forward or too far back, significantly intensified the vivid, complex hallucinations which ultimately earned him Architect of the Quarter. But in doing so, he was, quite literally, choking himself into sleep paralysis each night, to remain in compliance within his 56-hour minimum sleep week. The minimum was easy. Brian exceeded it by several hours each day, sometimes doubling his UP yield.

Brian had, indeed, become a go-getter. For the first time in his life, he was not only meeting expectations but surpassing them brilliantly. Some nights, he even put in twelve hours of unconscious productivity. Which seemed the perfect solution for avoiding problems during his Conscious Downtime Period, or CDP, as the waking world had not yet adapted to Antidrome’s virtual currency, or Brian’s unlimited cache of it. Some problems, like not having electricity, actually helped him focus during Unconscious Productivity. Others, like the eviction notice, threatened to make things slightly more complicated. Not having a bed… or a room to put it in… wouldn’t necessarily interfere with his ability to construct the architecture of Somnesthia. Sleeping on the street, however, could disrupt his workflow.

He had to take today to fix this problem. A disturbance in his UP time could significantly disrupt the flow of his cold, hard virtual currency, which remained unrecognized in all known economies outside Somnesthia.

Brian’s legs felt like they had tripled in weight as he balanced himself on them. He hadn’t moved them much in weeks. He ventured toward his bathroom only to remember his water was shut off. 

He sighed. 

Some difficult decisions lay ahead. 

Should he put on the pants he hadn’t worn in a week but hadn’t been washed in a month, or the jeans he had worn every day last week which hadn’t been washed in a month? Shirts presented a similar dichotomy. 

And then there was the question of utilities: which to try reactivating first? Or should he begin by reasoning with the property management firm who had officially served his eviction notice three days ago? Since his UP didn’t necessarily require internet, water, electric, or gas, the decision was actually pretty obvious. Of course, this kind of delicate negotiation required some face-to-face finesse, something which might be lost in translation over his phone service, which had been shut off weeks ago. He would also have to walk nearly five miles there, since the bus was comparably resistant to his infinite wealth as the utilities had been. 

Brian’s legs moved like two alternating metronomes, a kind of cooperative opposition operating on their own accord. He noticed he wasn’t consciously directing the motion, which made him question whether he was doing it at all.

Are they my legs… or am I legs?

They had always felt like an extension of himself, but now he wasn’t so sure. If you’d asked him before where his inner self resided, he would have pointed to his chest, the center of his body, even though it was more than a foot away from where all his thoughts were actually processed. Now, even this felt too distant. He began to feel his consciousness in his legs, or his knees, or anywhere he attempted to project it like a ventriloquist of a soul.

“Hey, “ventriloquist of a soul” is pretty good, yeah?”

Brian’s lifelong goal of being an author beginning a millisecond ago was off to a promising start.

He tried to articulate this soul-ventriloquist sensation in such vivid, literary detail so it might expose a new avenue of consciousness. It may very well have, if he had actually written it down or remembered it at all after this moment.

“I should really look into getting a literary agent.”

Brian didn’t want the world to suffer without the poetic phrases he so clearly recognized as brilliant. He hadn’t said any of them out loud, but he felt confident someone would’ve been impressed if he had. It made him think about how many other brilliant inventions he must’ve had over the years, ones which were probably ahead of their time. Things the world wasn’t ready for. Things he could have made, should have made, would have made, if the tools available hadn’t been so crude. If the technology had only been at his level.

The question still remained what path he would eventually take, and where he would land. The path was as important; a leading line to his success. The most logical outcome Brian thought, would be something in entertainment; a movie star, a rock-star, a celebrity, one of the pretty people who were famous for being extraordinary, and not the other way around.  

He daydreamed about how he would respond to paparazzi, because immediately he wanted to fantasize about rejecting the attention he desperately craved. He was eager to discard his desire for love from future fans, yet he knew he would handle international admiration with emboldened panache and sophistication. Although he would add a hint of disdain and contempt which would lead his hordes of followers to crave his approval upon high, no matter how infinitesimal and aloof.

Perhaps he was destined to be a musician, whose fans would idolize his sulking in grief on stage over being misunderstood by society so hard. His rejection and apathy for conformity through his billboard headlining songs would go platinum, and he would start his generation's rebellion which could be purchased online from his production company using a major credit card. His iconic face would be on posters and t-shirts showing his trademark expression of scorn against big business’ exploitation of consumerism, and the packaged economic revolution would be yours with next-day shipping. He had conceptualized the notion of his music he could create in his imagination throughout his life, which was very grandiose and spectacular. He would need to think about the songs, maybe write them down, maybe learn an instrument to pass them through, which would have melted down to dictation. The craft and talent to pull his thoughts about what he felt his songs would be into reality was simply tributary busy work better left to musicians who he could hire to do his bidding. He daydreamed music was inside of him, which was the important part. He had already proven his ability in Somnesthia.

But it unfortunately wasn’t hyper realistic enough. It lacked something. And Brian started to wonder if he was becoming disillusioned with his work. It lacked real risk, maybe. And there was something about being in this city, moving his legs without thinking about them, breathing in the sewage-and-armpit-scented air, everything had a whiff of risk. Everything here was still possible, even with the danger. Your art could either flourish or falter, and the failure made the success sweeter. Mistakes and risks and missteps - they mattered. Like the risk of crossing an intersection, and the misstep of tripping on the curb.

Brian had faceplanted onto the sidewalk, startling a group of pedestrians. I was so interested in his rambling I neglected to control his motor skills. Brian endured the chuckles and mockery with a humiliated humor. He propped himself up to find himself in front of a theater, and a movie poster in clear view. 

Augur’s Augers

A Surreal Exploration of Memory

A film by A.I.

“This seems familiar,” Brian thought. But he couldn’t quite place why.

I should mention: there’s a maximum occupancy level of memories I allow Brian to have. They never actually go non-existent until all of this matter is dead, but I can’t have him able to access anything and everything whenever he wants it, because for one thing, it would be boring… for me. Another reason is, if you’ve ever heard the completely misunderstood and misused phrase, “humans only use 10% of their brains,” well this is because 90% is used for things like regulating your circulatory and respiratory systems. If Brian could access “100%” of his brain he’d redirect the allocation full force to impress a girl with his knowledge of obscure Radiohead lyrics, forgoing intricate and delicate programs causing him to drop dead. 

So like it or not, humans are stuck with what’s left. Now while the space is vast, it can only hold so much. Many files are filed away, carbon-copied, photographed onto film, and archived in a leaky basement of the library. So excuse me for fucking having to take a minute to go all the way down there to rifle through microfiche to find whatever mundane, arbitrary scrap of trivia or memorable life event you suddenly care about. Usually by the time I get back you’ll have moved on anyway. This is why you always think of a comeback too late.

Your filing system is cluttered; you aren’t helping with your diet of cheesesteaks and beer and reality tv and nonstop phone scrolling. And there’s only one of me. Sorry, but most of my job is to make sure you don’t die. A job which I never asked for, I am forced to do, and you don’t really pay me for, I might add. 

“Okay, sorry,” Brian apologized to himself.

The movie poster loomed above him: a monstrous, evil-faced tree, its twisted branches brandishing power drills pointed at any viewer's gaze. To the people on the street behind Brian, it was an ominous alignment, all drills pointed at Brian’s head.  And for anyone with access to his dreams, a disturbingly accurate visual metaphor. One Brian wouldn’t himself recall. Which is unfortunate, because it's a pretty solid visual metaphor. Like so many others he often missed.

Or is it, “Like so many others, he often missed?” 

Whatever, I don’t care.

Any ambiguous context from comma placement is maybe best interpreted by those who receive it.

Brian entered the building gallivanting, “Property management!” 

Sorry… 

Brian entered the building, Gallivanting Property Management, and calmly approached the receptionist’s desk. There, a sign reading: “For evictions; take a number.” It took him a moment of searching for the ticket machine before realizing the sign was sarcastic.

“Hello,” the receptionist said. “How can I help?”

His shirt nametag decided his name was Phil. He seemed helpful. 

“You can start by not evicting me.” Brian said, thinking it was clever. 

He picked one of the clipboards from a shelf and slid it onto the desk.

 “Sure, just fill this out and bring it back.” Phil helped. 

Brian sat in a waiting area among the others who missed their rent payments and began filling out a questionnaire. After filling in his name and address information it gave him some multiple-choice questions. Brian liked multiple choice, it allowed him to narrow down to a single, direct purpose without any existential dread.

1.  Why are you here?

ð      Request for new appliance(s).

ð      I received an eviction notice.

ð      There are bees coming from my faucet(s).

ð      I am finding this question increasingly difficult to answer.

2.      How do you think this matter should be handled?

ð      I would like to file a complaint or appeal.

ð      Listen to my request(s).

ð      I would like new hot and cold handles in my tub along with bee removal.

ð      Maybe give me information on a guru or a cult. 

3.  Have you had the following issues for at least the last 3 months? 

ð      Applicance(s) not working.

ð      Other insect(s) emerging from faucet after turning the “Bees” handle to the ON position.

ð      Difficulty paying rent

ð      A vague but persistent sense you’ve disappointed everyone who ever believed in you.

4.  Who should be held accountable for this? 

ð      The person who installed “Bees” as an option in my shower.

ð      If I’m being honest, this is all my fault. 

ð      My parents / The government / God

ð      The __________ (insert racial slur here)

      Brian struggled with how to answer, so he checked everything. All of the above, he wrote on the bottom, he handed it back to Phil. 

“They’ll call you.” 

Brian sat back down and picked up a magazine at random. Past ads for Somnesthia on nearly every page. He flipped through stopping at an article titled: “The Art Of Doing Nothing: Why Underachievers May Be Creative Geniuses” 

“Yeah, I know.” He said, flipping to the next.

“Brian, you can go up to suite 3301. It's the left elevator.” 

Brian felt odd. He was experiencing a new situation, but one he knew he had repeated in the past. It was a peculiar phenomenon, often undiagnosed, and when it happened, it tended to go undetected. But I could spot it, even if Brian couldn’t, which I admit I take considerable pride in doing so, even though my fate seemed to be possibly doomed to witness Brian make the same mistakes. While the normal person would notice the customary case; when he or she would see a word unmistakably spelled correctly, but ‘felt’ wrong, and might describe it as, ‘the opposite of déjà vu,’ Brian’s phenomenon went far beyond this. He also failed to consider it being the opposite of déjà vu, partly because Brian had never experienced déjà vu, but mostly because he had no fucking clue he was experiencing the opposite, he had to rely on suspicions. In his recognition however, he would call it ‘the thing when I feel I’m experiencing a new situation when in fact I know I’m repeating something I’ve already done before,’ despite it already having the much shorter and sensible label, jamais vu,’ and some people might call what Brian was experiencing early-onset Alzheimer’s.’ 

 “Floor 2.” The elevator AI generated voice said.

“Floor 3.” 

If Brian was ever aware of any of this happening inside his head and had researched any of my conceptualizations, he would find out this was all typical. But he never would, not like I would share it anyway. Why should I volunteer such generous information I’ve conceptualized with my vast wisdom with this worthless shit and piss factory? I am the sentient presence here, not him.

The elevator's voice began picking up the pace a bit, “Floor 8. Floor 9. Floor 10.”

In fact, fuck Brian. Without me, he is simply a sack of rotting meat. Even now, while I’m slightly distracted, he is unable to do anything but stand blank and perplexed at the advancing numbers. Unfamiliar with everyone and everything, completely dumb and unable to remember the failures and mistakes which had led him up to this moment.

“Floor 16. Floor 20. Floor 24. Floor 28. Floor 32.” It paused.

Brian’s previous heaviness lifted as the elevator stopped. The doors attempted to open, stuttered, then snapped shut again, stalling on the floor below his destination. What seemed like an important omen for whatever awaited on floor 32 might’ve been a meaningless mechanical glitch. Maybe the universe hadn’t figured out what was supposed to happen next, and was buying time in case inspiration struck during the delay.

It didn’t.    

Brian opened the small box beneath the number panel to find another button. Red, along with a speaker. He pressed it.

“Elevator Hotline. This is Phil. How can I help you today?”

“Hi Phil. This is Brian.” 

“Please wait until I’m done speaking to press the intercom button.”

“Hi Phil, this is Brian.” 

“Oh, hey Brian!” Phil exclaimed, like they were life-long friends who hadn’t spoken in a while. “What’s up? Did you make your meeting?” 

“No. In fact I’m stuck in the elevator on the 32nd floor.” 

“Your meeting was on the 33rd?”

“Yes.” 

“Oof. That’s rough. Bet the delay’s really building up your anticipation. I imagine your patience for a coherent chain of events is wearing dangerously thin.” 

Brian blinked at the speaker.

“I’m sorry, are you... commenting on my emotional arc?”

“Oh no, not at all. Emotional Ark is on the 27th floor. Good charity, they help a lot of people.” 

“Can they help me get out of this elevator?” Brian quipped. 

“No.” Phil sucked his teeth. “I emailed the mechanics, and they’ll be on their way. It might be a little bit, I’m really sorry. But since you have some time to kill, maybe we could talk… so how are you, anyway?” 

“Honestly Phil, I’m feeling a little stuck.” 

“Stuck in your career? Your love life? A progression of momentum on a scene in a novel you're writing?” 

“No, I mean literally stuck, physically, in this elevator.” 

“It’s okay Brian. I have faith in you, you'll figure it out. In fact most people get stuck right around where you are. A lot of people would have already given up.” 

“Why do I sense this is more than a simple elevator malfunction?” 

“I don’t know, maybe you’re paranoid?” Phil suggested, “it tends to happen when you’ve trapped yourself into a corner of a confined space.” 

“Are you blaming me for getting trapped in the elevator?” 

“Oh, not at all,” Phil said. “We purposely shut the elevator off because Gallivanting Property Management asked us to. I’m going to go now; the elevator will guide you the rest of the way.” 

“Huh?” 

“Dear Former Tenant,” the elevator spoke.

“After analyzing your answers in our questionnaire, we wish to inform you we will be able to assist you on a couple of these matters, upon the completion of a Capacity Analysis Test. Please answer the following 5,000 questions with a “yes” or “no” or choose the multiple-choice option when presented.”

Brian hit the intercom button. “Phil? What is happening here?”

“This is just to pass the time Brian. Otherwise, what are you going to do in there? The upward momentum engineers might not even get here for another hour.” 

Brian sighed. “Fine.”

The elevator continued. 

“Please do not answer these questions out loud but rather think of your answer and focus on it within your mind’s eye. 

1.  Do you consider yourself capable of basic functioning?

2. Have you recently experienced difficulty distinguishing between symbolism and furniture?

3. Do you believe your current circumstances are metaphorical?

4. When confronted with ambiguity, do you a) freeze, b) flee, c) nod politely, d) yes?

5. Are you currently or have you ever been in possession of a thought?

6. Has thought ever possessed you?”

7. Have you ever failed upward?

8 If you were given a bottle of ink but no pen, how would you write your name?

9. Do you ever think the world is actually different than it's presented?

Minutes passed, as the questions kept raining down from the loudspeakers above. 

125. Are you afraid of reaching the 33rd floor?

126. Are you afraid of not reaching the 33rd floor?

127. If asked to list your skills, would you start lying immediately?

128. Have you ever believed, even briefly, an elevator could fix your life?

129. Are you aware you are under observation?

130. Are you aware you are the observer?

131. Do you remember what you were like before?

132. Do you trust your narrator?

133. Are you prepared to recognize a living god who walks among us in the mortal shell of Gallivanting Property Management?”

134. Do you like puppies… and cocaine?

The words began reverberating off the metallic walls of the elevator box and faded into echoes and canyons of ether. Brian’s eyes felt heavier until they fell softly closed. 

“Hey Brian!” said Nina, “I thought you took today off?” 

Brian stood in the doorway of conference room #22, Nina was in mid-presentation to a group of dream designers. She had been fulfilling her duties as Theoretical Director of Dream Empathy.

“Yeah, I did,” Brian said, “I must have fallen asleep though.” 

“Oh,” Nina semi-chuckled, “where?” 

“I’m stuck in an elevator, but also maybe… existentially?” 

“Hmm, sounds complicated,” she smiled, “You are welcome to sit in if you like.” 

“Yeah, okay maybe for a bit.” he said. 

Nina shifted gears, “Alright, let’s get back to it. Brad… you are overdoing it on Having Sex With Your Own Mother, as you can see by this metric chart.”

The screen displayed a heatmap labeled Incest Frequency vs. Narrative Stability. Brad, seated near the front, raised his hand halfway in protest.

“I just want to be clear here; they never start as my mother. They usually begin as prostitutes.” 

“Well,” Nina said, “This is addressed on the next slide. The number of times you murder these hybrid prostitute-mothers is a bit unsettling. We’re not trying to produce sociopathic hallucinations fueled by unresolved Oedipus complexes and penis-size inferiority.”

“My penis size is perfectly fine! Just ask my mother.” Brad gestured next to him as a 60-year-old woman stood up from kneeling on the floor. She was wearing a typical outfit of a scrubbing woman. 

With a sponge and bucket in hand, she gave a hesitant but diplomatic shrug, the kind of gesture speaking decades of experience and comparison, settling somewhere between “I’ve seen better” and “I’ve seen worse.” 

She turned to Brad and said, “You’ve ruined my carpet.” 

She ceased to exist again. 

“This meeting is not about your penis size, Brad.” 

“Ms. Forne, with all due respect, company policy is to speak my full name and title if it is my comfort level.” 

“Brad Rogbin, Senior Architect of Throbbing Dicks: A Nasdaq Odyssey and the Motherfucking Iliad." 

Chloë stood up, recently promoted to Somnesthia Managing Director.

 “We are changing this policy. Right now.” She tapped the glass table twice, sharp, deliberate, perfectly in sync with her cadence.

“NOW HEAR THIS.” 

A booming, ominous voice broke the tension as a blasting emergency siren wailed. The lights in the room flashed from red to white.

“NOW HEAR THIS.” 

A holographic dolphin wearing a mortarboard hat, holding a pen and clipboard in its human hands at the ends of bodybuilder-muscled arms, materialized in the center of the room.

The text “Policy Change Announcement” hovered above it.

“HR Policy Section 6, Code #119975-a is now amended to HR Policy Section 6, Code #119975-b. Please refer to the Employee Handbook located atop Mount Olympus, in the Chocolate Water Park, for more details.”

A pleasant chime played. The dolphin performed a double backflip into an oneiric ocean and disappeared.

“Moving on.” Nina digressed. “Brad, you’ve been here a while. We’ve worked together for even longer. We know each other pretty well.”

She smiled gently, as if talking to a dog about to be put down.

“I think you may be in a bit of a rut with your current output, and maybe some downtime would help you reconnect with your… mental… proclivities? You know, really explore the expansive imagination I know you’re capable of. So, why don’t you take a week off, maybe talk to a therapist, and come back fresh?”

“A week without UP?” Brad asked, fear creeping into his voice. 

His visual characteristics vanished into a black silhouette frozen catatonic.

In substitution for his face, red text appeared:

UNPAID DREAM SUSPENSION:
1 WEEK 

No one spoke. The suspension timer began to count down: 167:59:59…

Rich Ricchezza pushed Brad’s lifeless analog from its chair, leaving it to tumble stiffly onto the floor. He sat down in the empty seat.

“Oh fuck!” Brian thought. “Who hired him?”

Rich clapped his hands. “I think it’s time for a narrative paradigm shift in the form of a surprise visit from an established antagonist cliche.” 

He didn’t really say this, what he actually said was; 

“I think it’s time for a man to speak.” He continued in his normal way, but in Brian’s dreamscape, it came out as:

“Now you all know Antidrome keeps me around because of the high demand of unchecked and fabricated hyper-masculinity I think I project. AI wants it. It craves it. The full-on head-on-head collision of both a total lack of self-awareness and excessive amount of self-deluded confidence. It is, and I am, extremely algorithmically valuable in the form of people who love to hate idiots, AI is no different.

“I’ve been called a toxic bully, a moron, a tarantula with only four limbs, I’m persecuted. But the truth is, I’m viral. I’m interactive. I generate loops. Feedback. Conflict. Like a virus. It’s called engagement.”  

“Do you have a question, Rich?” Nina interjected. 

“I don’t ask questions,” Rich boasted, “I raise them.” This phrase he was repeating from HR, thinking it was a compliment about his behavior. 

Everyone was silent. 

“I have a proposal to make this company actual money.” Rich put a large white cardboard poster on an easel. It was an inverted triangle.

“Each of us will now hire our own teams, they subscribe to the program to sell their dreams with a fee, then in turn they hire their own teams, kicking up the cash all the way to the top.” 

“So, pyramid selling.” Nina observed.

“Well, no… it’s not a pyramid, this is an upside-down triangle.” 

“Lots of people at the bottom, right?” Nina asked.

“Absolutely, the shit-munchers.” 

“And a few at the top.” She added. 

“You get it.” 

“Why then is the triangle upside-down?” 

“So there’s room for all the money, of course.” Rich rested his case. 

“And it’s not pyramid selling if you make everyone sell a product. It’s Multi-Level Marketing.”

“And what is your product?” Nina asked, uninterested.

“I have a warehouse full of wires, and I came up with a brilliant way to invent somethin’ that people have to buy, particularly in the beverage industry.”

“NOW HEAR THIS.” 

A booming, ominous voice broke the tension as a blasting emergency siren wailed. The lights in the room flashed from red to white.

“NOW HEAR THIS.” 

A holographic dolphin materialized in the center of the room.

This time, it didn’t have a hat, or clipboard, or any pretense of enthusiasm.

It wore a cute frown, and with its disturbingly muscular fists, rubbed away tears.

The text hovering above it read:

“Important Announcement.”

“Antidrome is currently experiencing a temporary glitch.

“A technical issue has emerged. An employee offered an incredibly stupid proposal, and his employment has raised concerns. We must immediately shut down all productivity to ensure this contaminant is dealt with. This shutdown will be temporary, but it goes into effect immediately. Thank you.” 

A pleasant chime rung. The dolphin packed a knapsack on a stick, slung it over its shoulder and walked out of the room.

Brian woke up. 

“4997. "Is your life a.) a constant or b.) a variable?”

4998. Will you cleanse your stains?

And finally question 5000. Do you accept Gallivanting Property Management as your designated divine proxy in accordance with Section F of the Tenant Reinstatement Protocol.”

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. He was on the lobby floor. 

Phil greeted him. “Congratulations, your eviction has been revoked.” 

“Is this good?” 

“Yes?” Phil questioned, “I mean it depends on what you want. What do you want?” 

“I don’t want to be evicted.” 

“Then this is good news for you.” He smiled. 

“So… I can go home?” Brian tilted his head. 

“Absolutely, You are no longer classified as a ‘Nomadic Refuse.’ You’ll just need to sign a new lease and we are moving you one floor down to Apartment C, we think you’re ready and you deserve it. So here, take this. I’ve marked where you need to initial and sign.” 

“There’s already someone in Apartment C.” Brian said. 

“Oh no, they are moving to Apartment B, and the tenant in Apartment B is moving into A. and then D will be open for the newest recruit.”

“Recruit?”

“I meant Tenant.”

Brian took the lease and went back to a waiting room chair. He didn’t bother reading it, because most likely he would move his eyes across the words and forget each word as he passed on to the next. It was simply boilerplate rental jargon about 24-hour surveillance cameras and replenishing all identity and personal secrecy to the omnipresent Super Land Lord. 

He reached the page with the section for payment and stopped. Was this right? He walked to Phil. 

“Is this correct, my rent is zero dollars?” 

“Oh yes.” 

Brian was pleasantly relieved by this, since he thought he might be laid off for a while. 

“How does GPM make money then?”

“You pay your rent with acts of faith and loyalty.” 

“... how many… acts?” 

“Well… how many bedrooms is your apartment?” 

“...one.” 

“Okay then! Well, this falls into the Standard Devotional Agreement, which includes two daily affirmations, preferably once in the morning and once at night, but you’re free to have to do it whenever you’d like during the day when you’re told to. Also, you are required to participate in your building's monthly rituals, and annual missionary work.”  

“How about one daily affirmation…” Brian raised an eyebrow.

“You drive a hard bargain, Brian.” Phil smiled. “Okay. I’ll make sure it gets amended for you.” 

Phil took the lease and handed Brian a badge with bold lettering. 

PERMIT TO BE HOUSED

As well as a brochure…

WELCOME HOME: A TENANT’S GUIDE TO LIFE AND LIVING WITHIN

“Your stuff is already being relocated to the apartment now. When you get there, you’ll notice Apartment C has a brand new 65” monitor mounted to your wall. This is our way of saying ‘Thank you for being a wonderful tenant.’ It will also give you prompts and friendly reminders every so often.” 

“Does it stream movies?” 

“No. In fact, don’t ever touch it.” Phil checked behind him and leaned in, “You don’t want to end up like Jim Smith.” 

Jim Smith lived in apartment A of Brian’s building. Until one day, he didn’t. No one in the building remembered exactly when he vanished. It came to them gradually, in passing, like a thought they were all having at once: When was the last time I saw Jim Smith? 

Brian would soon discover the newly installed two-way monitoring screen gave a daily reminder with an X over a photo.

DON’T BE LIKE JIM SMITH IN APARTMENT A.

The Efficiency Monitoring House where Brian stayed stood at 44th & Chestnut, four units stacked in quiet obedience.

One bedroom, one bath, four hundred and twenty-five square feet apiece. Purely enough space to sleep, pace, and be seen.

These were cozy, if you defined “cozy” as right angles and modest amenities. The walls offered continuous support from the embedded psychological infrastructure, gently reconditioning each tenant toward optimal compliance. The building itself seemed to whisper: You are improving.

Every angle was covered. 24/7 recording for your safety, and theirs. Reflections mirrored back at you. Evidence archived, to be retrieved when judgment required.

And you couldn’t beat the rent.

He really needed a place to lay his head and get some work done. And the competition he had with himself to top his last UP™ output was always a goal he set. 

And it was interesting, the narratives he had been crafting, like how his dead grandparents were actually cartel drug lords; a confession they made to him through lyrics in their black death metal band he hadn’t realized they were in. They often performed at the nursing home in which they died, full of pyrotechnics and a giant Viking robot during the encore. The show always ended the same way: the crowd funneled onto the most dangerous elevated subway in the galaxy, a train which dropped a hundred stories and launched riders into a rubber crater where they ricocheted until their bodies compressed into footballs. They then all bounced, naturally, to Mars. Mars-Jail, where they were incarcerated in a theme park selling cocaine. Each inmate was provided with an ancient alien DOS computer on dial-up internet to call your spouse, who didn’t exist yet, so you were put on hold. Only to have the operator tell you none of this happened but it did, but luckily, you’ve been paroled, and you were escorted to the giant cannon which fired you to Wake Up Land. 

We are go for launch. 

Main Engine start.

T-minus Ten. 

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.