The story world I’ve been thinking of is borne of the licentious mixing together of ideas from several texts — media theory, philosophy, literature, glitch — perhaps literalising or abstracting concepts, transmorgifying the inane and the disparate into a fibre-optic bouquet of trashy digital waste.
1. Fleshing out the story world:
Characters: The unknown narrator.
And the archaeologist, an unfathomable figure who collects media artefacts of the past. The notion of the archaeologist contains rich associations for me:
“Foucault’s contribution to the archaeology of knowledge and culture was to emphasize it as a methodology for excavating conditions of existence. Archaeology here means digging into the background reasons why a certain object, statement, discourse or, for instance in our case, media apparatus or use habit is able to be born and be picked up and sustain itself in a cultural situation. Kittler builds on Foucault’s ideas and has demanded a more media technological understanding of such archaeological work: such conditions of existence not only are discursive, or institutional, but relate to media networks, as well as scientific discoveries. Kittler wanted to look at technical media in the way Foucault was reading archives of books and written documents. What if we start to read media technology in the same way that Foucault exposed cultural practices and discourses to an analysis of how they were born and made possible in certain settings?”
Jussi Parikka, What is Media Archeology? (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2012), 6.
Important technology/antecedent technology: The world exists in a time not too distant from the present but also steeped heavily in technologies of the past. Important technologies would be antecedent technologies — camera obscuras, magic lanterns, phantasmagorias, panoramas, daguerreotypes, thaumatropcs, anorthoscopes, phenakistoscopes, praxinoscopes, mutoscopes, stereoscopes, screens, cameras, projectors, cathode ray tube televisions, flat screen televisions, monitors, central processing units…
Speculative utopic/dystopic cyborg erotica
3. Written story:
Membrana excavatory: The churning of topsoil, unsheathing of earth, I watch helplessly as you prise apart crevices to enter loam, consider the blinding intimacies of striae left gaping-exposed. Screens blackened and dead are lodged within mounds of dirt – obtuse, blocky forms constituting slurried soilscapes, dioramas of asphalt chunks and deflection coils. The cathode ray tubes here no longer hum or crackle: From black box to black box, it is the way of things – the yield of the historical, the amalgamate of frenetic versioning, of in-built obsolescence, of mythic technocultures laid to rest.
The archaeologist bears their head low, the ocularity of the present moment offers nothing to provide comfort or respite. Plastic spires that jut and heave, metallo-oxidized air resting thick within alveoli… Nomenclature is a slippery thing. The garden of digital vastness, the phantom of the analogue cinematic, graveyards for scanlined images that no longer glow. The electronics beg for you to notice the things they have meticulously hidden.  Who else will cradle bouquets of cathodes and anodes? Florets of phosphor vibrating, mycelial network of coagulated electromagnetic waves, only the intrepid archeologist pushes their sticky bodies through.
[filename: excavation findings.txt
Panasonic CTF 1359R
The archaeologist collects, and that afternoon, archival was the only means of mitigating this fever.  Nothing so saturated as the constituent cybernetic data bodies intermingling, cloud storage servers scattering across landscapes emptied of message.
۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̅͗̄̐̃ͬͮͣͩͮ̆̓́͛ͯͤͣͧ̔ͮ̈́ͯ̅۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̚̚̚̚̚ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿‡̀ͥ̏ͣ̄o̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗ ه҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ o̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗‡̀ͥ̏ͣ̄ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿█ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿
۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̅͗̄̐̃ͬͮͣͩͮ̆̓́͛ͯͤͣͧ̔ͮ̈́ͯ̅۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̚̚̚̚̚ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ o̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞⁴͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞⁴͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞
۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̅͗̄̐̃ͬͮͣͩͮ̆̓́͛ͯͤͣͧ̔ͮ̈́ͯ̅۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̚̚̚̚̚⁴͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞ o̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗‡̀ͥ̏ͣ̄ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿iͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥ𝐚۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̅͗̄̐̃ͬͮͣͩͮ̆̓́͛ͯͤͣͧ̔ͮ̈́ͯ̅۫ͫ̈́̊̃͛͐̎̂̓̃̇͛̍ͪͩ́͒͆̓̉̽̍̏͂ͮ̈́ͦ̀ͤ͗̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̚̚̚̚̚ه҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿\⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈o̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿█ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿‡̀ͥ̏ͣ̄o̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗ ه҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇͇̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ o̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗̗‡̀ͥ̏ͣ̄ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿█ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿╪ͥ͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͏͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋ o̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍
ه҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈\⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈⃫҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈╪ͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥ͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋͏͋ه҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈҈ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿█ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ ̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿̿ o̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍̍⁴͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞⁴͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞͞iͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥ ͤͬͦͬͬͤͬͦͬͬͬͦͬͬͤͬͦͬͬͤ ͤͬͦͬͬͤͬͦͬͬ ͬͤͬͦͬͬͤͬͦͬ ͬͬͤͬͦͬͬͤͬͦ ͦͬͬͤͬͦͬͬͤͬ ͬͦͬͬͤͬͦͬͬͤ ͤͬͦͬͬͤͬͦͬͬ ͬͤͬͦͬͬͤͬͦͬ ͬͬͤͬͦͬͬͤͬͦ ͦͬͬͤͬͦͬͬͤͬ𝐚iͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥͥ𝐚
 “Yet to hide a passion totally (or even to hide, more simply, its excess) is inconceivable: not because the human subject is too weak, but because passion is in essence made to be seen: the hiding must be seen: I want you to know that I am hiding something from you, that is the active paradox I must resolve: at one and the same time it must be known and not known: I want you to know that I don’t want to show my feelings: that is the message I address to the other. Larvatus prodeo: I advance pointing to my mask: I set a mask upon my passion, but with a discreet ( and wily) finger I designate this mask.”
Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1978), 42-43.
 “It is to burn with a passion. It is never to rest, interminably, from searching for the archive right where it slips away. It is to run after the archive, even if there’s too much of it, right where something in it anarchives itself. It is to have a compulsive, repetitive, and nostalgic desire for the archive, an irrepressible desire to return to the origin, a homesickness, a nostalgia for the return to the most archaic place of absolute commencement. No desire, no passion, no drive, no compulsion, indeed no repetition compulsion, no “mal-de” can arise for a person who is not already, in one way or another, en mal d’archive. Now the principle of the internal division of the Freudian gesture, and thus of the Freudian concept of the archive, is that at the moment when psychoanalysis formalizes the conditions of archive fever and of the archive itself, it repeats the very thing it resists or which it makes its object.”
Jacques Derrida, Archive fever: A Freudian impression, (University of Chicago Press, 1996), 57.