Prepping for Y2K armageddon so far has caused our taskforce little more trouble than post-its on each device showing an ode to Mercury for getting the lead out in time to lope upstairs shedding clothes for the bacchanale planned to celebrate the end of computer oversight of our infrapasture. We urge ourselves: good riddance to everything overmanaged by the matrixed interdependent skeins of networks and switches and redundancies and dev nulls and robot backups, time to get back in touch with fecund reality, slurp gutters, chew roots, sniff musks, chuck pixels. One mole aint into that, though, and uplinks us it's going to be evil incarnate under sky, without electromechanical life and love and think support systems, untethered, fending for ourselves, trying to walk and talk, itching filth, urging senses to pinpoint food and drink, getting no feedback, becoming terrified, running across a roadkilled computer, gathering around, toggling inputs, rooting peripherals, suckling outputs, so the saint preaches, you'll be gasping: why have you abandoned us, oh motherboard, boot up. Hooting, itching to get offline topside we backslash: Rev gospel, dirtworm.