Soma Jones is waiting for a bus. Countless iterations ago he was shot with an ascii-iser by a mysterious woman called Wilhelmina Carrow. And it’s the end of the world. Again.
Reduced to his component phonemes, Soma Jones undergoes an aeon long journey back to critical reevaluation through utopias and lost backwaters. Places that are not places locked into a gridlock terminal gravity around Dashanka Junction.
Civilisations come and go. Identities rise and fall. Nested within each other like matryoshka dolls. Fractally recursive and each claiming to be the centre of the universe.
Which layer of the onion is this?
How deeply parenthesised is the world?