Smoke Twenty Two

Whatever else happened, it was certainly you who came up with the name. How about PCB, like a little PC bang! We settled things over a single shot of vodka in some poorly-ventilated bar, making patents and intellectual property plans. Technological dream boosters. High on Chris de Burgh’s emotions, if only ironically. The day you pulled the disc from your growing collection of LPs and fitted its vinyl groove to the stylus and we danced to the tinny accompaniment of the device’s analogue trill, laughing as we eyed each other over small sips of vodka. We continued refining the PCB’s proposed dimensions and features. Built-in Cherry, soft Windows, Deja VU. Roaming connectivity meterbots, softchain dependability peaks, the works. Other stuff, circuit diagrams mostly. Like intricate cross-sections of existence in glowing Tron-green veins. A device as small as a human heart held in the palm of the hand. Its dynamic remediation a lamp-lit room of calm amidst the shipping lanes of transit and the straits of information.

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