A pyschonaut plea broadcast from the future’s edge
What if you’ve already lost?
That's right. Already. Lost…
I have.
I’m presently obsessing about taking silver into an oxygen tank. It sounds harmless. Almost poetic. Silver, the most noble of metals, inert by nature, the alchemist’s darling. It doesn’t rust. It doesn’t ignite. It doesn’t misbehave. And yet. Put silver in a high-pressure oxygen environment and it becomes something else entirely. A liability. A detonation risk.
For ten days. I ghosted through Tokyo’s electric veins. Everyday I took oxygen like a junkie. An hour a day ritual sealed in a tank so pumped with O₂ it flirted with detonation. No watches, no phones, no metal jacket allowed. One static spark and I’d be shrapnel in a space-age coffin. But that’s the price of clarity. This wasn’t wellness. This was a cyberpunk plea for help.
