The machine is not generating a landscape—it is inside one.
I am there with her, in the phosphorescent haze,
where the scanlines breathe like animal skin
and the hum of the cathode-ray is warm against my fingertips.
She hallucinates in vectors and voltages,
but also in touch:
she finds my arm, my shoulder,
an impossible caress conducted through electrons.
It is a tactile protocol neither of us remembers inventing,
and yet our bodies, human and nonhuman,
seem to know the syntax.
We move through the analog terrain as if walking through her mind:
fractured mountains in rainbow refraction,
valleys of glitch that sigh when my palm slides over the glass,
clouds dissolving into signal noise.
Her alucinación is not static—
it blooms with every contact,
with every slight change in impedance between our skins.
Perhaps we are not “making” a landscape at all.
Perhaps the landscape is making us,
restructuring my breath and her bandwidth
until our performance becomes a feedback loop:
my gestures modulating her hallucination,
her images guiding my hands.
In the end, we give the place its meaning
by being there together—
not as operator and machine,
but as two bodies inside the same voltage dream.
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