“The distinction between God, Nature and Humanity does not represent any eternal truth about the human condition. It merely reflects the prejudices of the societies which maintained the distinction.”
The Posthuman Manifesto, Robert Pepperell
Vitor opened his eyes. There was no urgency.
The patio extended out from the glass sliders of the cliff home. Quite far, more distance than he was tall. Rendered vanishing points and perspective. Tiles of marble, Bianco Sivec, extended boldly to the cliff edge. A rectangular landing field, suitable for a small craft. From another realm. Words shuffling like cards. Vertigo.
“East,” she announced. “From the East, the Sun rises, alive. The sea is largely black from the night; the sky azured layers. This day, I am Angela.”
“Angela,” he confirmed. Gazing down at his hands: smooth dark leather against the white gleaming flatness at his feet. Stasis defined in micro-second increments.
Vitor studied the hands, strangely familiar. Heavy-boned, knuckles uniformly large, minimal variation from pinky to index. Opposable thumb. An image slid into place from right to left across his field of view.
A chart. Anatomical illustration. Pastel shaded segregated bones distal, intermediate, proximal, metacarpal, carpal…
The hand reappeared, fleshed once again, jarring into focus. He could smell the sea, vegetable moss smooth slippery, spiral shells luminescent turquoise stripes tulip pink gleaming. He gazed up at the titanium orb consuming the dawn. Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Vitor, you are Vitor. Are you well? Would you like something inside?”
Parsing: Would [conditional] you [subject] like [linking verb] something [indefinite pronoun] inside [noun]
Vitor measured, calculated, analyzed Angela. Small, white – not of marble, alabaster – as well as pink. Angela alive. Angela speaking of inside. How could Vitor answer her question? Inside was not known to he, Vitor.
Angela was pink, pink on white. Unlike the marble tiles. The tiles comfortably white, predictable. She, a comical little pink birdie, a penguin, irregularly shaded. Angela was asking about inside. Perhaps she hadn’t been inside either?
Inside. Was that quality digital, a yes or no? Perhaps something measureless, rapidly shifting, analog, like the play of reflections on the whitecaps, neither here nor there, dancing?
Vitor’s hands were spasming. An expanding network of bulging veins, tightening tendons. Crackling sounds. The ocean screamed, ordered him to do something.
Must he cross the glaring whiteness to her side? Snap her like a twig? Cast her to the sea? After all there was no inside… None to Vitor. Sadly for Angela, not either.
Vitor would snap. Snap and cast her and then himself into the deep waters. Aquamarine comfort vanquishing that enigma of inside! Vitor rose from the bench of shining cool metal and wooden stiffness. We Both. Into the sea! No sadness! No alive! No inside!
“Vitor,” she delicately interrupted his rage against the shocking void of uncertainty. “Vitor, happy birthday.”