Now you’re asking the right question.
Maybe you think the question is obvious. Maybe you think the answer is simple. I think there are usually more important questions behind the questions that come the easiest to us—what do you mean, “Where am I?” How do you not know? You’re there aren’t you? That is, wherever you are.
I suppose it’s a little rude to put words in your mouth. If you’re new I can show you around.
Welcome to the terminal. This is the interspatial void where the internet began, and where it ends. It exists purely in our collective consciousness, at the boundaries of the virtual world now mediated to us through the phenomenon of the internet and its completed proliferation. We all pass through this terminal as we move from the outside to the center and back. It is always here, though most skip through so frequently its existence is easily forgotten.
To most it’s simply nowhere—that is, another space not worth caring about. But we are always here, whether you notice us or not in your travels, all of us who linger at the terminal. Some of us slow down on our way to somewhere else. Some of us loiter only to look out over the crowded sectors of the interspace. Some of my friends sleep on the benches with nowhere else to go.
Me? I’m always here too. Don’t get me wrong, we all take the occasional downtown trip for shiny wares and entertainment, but I spend most of my days here on the terminal, peddling my latest publication of The Terminal Post. It is an independent, lofi zine that I make for all the interspatial orphans and wanderers at the terminal. I write reports and reflections on my incessant drifting around the interspace. You’ll find all sorts of reviews and editorials in addition to my frustration with the animals over in the downtown centers—the sheep and wolves alike.
Mostly, the Post is where I house my thoughts and dreams. I dabble in the arts and typically slip in my own amateur work.
Monday and Wednesday: I broadcast the most provocative and shamanistic insights from my wandering about the interspace—all crammed into bitesize consumables of one hundred and forty characters (or sometimes less). I didn’t even know it was conceivable, but it’s one of our most popular columns.
Tuesday: I share photos. Sometimes, these are my most cherished views from the terminal. Most times, I document the particularities of the textures of the interspace.
Thursdays: I release reports of my spelunking, and curated reviews of only the most superb interspatial DJs. I never learned to play, but still developed a serious obsession with music. If you read it in the Post, you read about the best.
Daily (Monday through Thursday): I publish serialized fiction in the Post. Truly, I aspire to be a novelist. I immortalize in fiction the remarkable people and places I’ve discovered in the interspace. Secretly, I hope some publication bigwig will stop off one day on his way downtown and discover my genius.
Until then, you’ll always find me here. Be sure to stop by and grab the post whenever you’re passing through.
All this content is included for only $1 a month. Pay more if you want. I’ll publish more when I want. I know you’re asking, “For such a bargain how could anyone say no?” Then again, the Post isn’t for just anyone.
See you around, spacewalker.
—editor