The year is 2060.
Paper is something you own if you are rich. Books written on it change hands like Monets. Expensive, rare.
Literature for the public is electric. Download it, mash it up and insert soundbites into shuffle in your i-pod.
There are few authors. Most make do with their print electric, but some dream of reality. Like Rick Deckard in Philip K. Dick's Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep who dreams of owning a real sheep instead of an electric one.
Rick Deckard is given the chance to own a real sheep. He has to kill androids to get it.
I ask myself, what do I dream of? What would I do to get it?
I've just woken from a dream where I have strung three adverbs into a line in my website.
'Hi I'm Isaac,' said Isaac slowly, painfully, deliberately.
I wake splutering 'ly' on the end of all my words. I walk to the bathroom and spit them into the sink.
Is this what I dream of? Is this what my dreams have become? Or do I dream a bigger picture. A dream where the sheep is real. The electric is paper. The book in my hands before me. Tactile, crisp, alive.
The year is 2080.
The book is electric. I'm going to kill to make it into print.
Androids are going to die.
I awake in the year 2007.
I enter the bathroom and stand as the shower changes the tone of my skin.