It’s the radioactivity. It inebriates them. Something about what we call the weak nuclear force, that shy, unglamorous cousin of

A dream is a true thing. Truer than we are. Every night, we appear as unwitting players in the dream’s

You, me, and whoever wrote these words, here may we rest a while. And talk with the dead. Searching minds

Merlin had warned them twice. “Not the gold dust,” he had said, lifting the goblet with the solemnity of a

When we go through the hot-process of reading stories we are changed and the world itself seems to be telling

Q: to Claude a.i. Sonnet 4.6, “How do you envision the convergence of a.i. and human neurology?” A: I’ll admit