Yeah, we couldn’t live without each other.
And we couldn’t live without you.
We’re Silver Maxwell and Rookie Maxwell.
We came upon each other in a hypertext novel in 1996. We were kids. Teens. Got bored with the novel, tuned in to each other and jumped. Into the void. Surfaced here a lotta links later. Still in the 20th century. Before social media. Now, though we’re postable, we prefer our own rowdy slum-comic-book-manga-movie. In the forest. Or at sea in our studio, tossed in pixels. Incarnating. While we can.
But if you think some of this stuff has more likely been dreamt up by a couple of old farts in a nook of their smoky Hebridean cottage then you could be right. Fictional fiction-makers are mutable.
Or in a C-Suite bathroom in a tower in New York or Shanghai. Relief from relieving the world of futurity.
‘If her eyes had been open she would have seen across to where the city rose like a phantasmagoria of ice cubes, its purple zomes and domes sparkling under the westering sun.’
Was that where’en we met?