I use a black and yellow painted paper-mâché internet.

It can only be accessed from 3 am to 4 am.

It tells a sprawling topology of truth.

The internet that everyone else uses lies.

This internet is a late capitalist dreamtime connection made of glue and newspaper.

It hums like a wasp’s nest under the floorboards.

It only works for one hour. Then the glue melts. The signal collapses.

The newspapers resolve back into yesterday’s news.

By dawn, it’s just a plateau of pulp.

But sometimes I find a word still intact in the wreckage.

Last Tuesday, it was "REVOLT."

This morning, it was "REMEMBER."

I’m saving them all.

For what, I don’t know yet.

But the paper-mâché internet is patient.

It knows we’re running out of time.