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1. #Fall fall fall fall into the walls jump jump out of time software#
2. #Fall fall fall fall into the walls jump jump out of time crack#

Probably six hundred of those on the military’s dime, but the rest on my own, after I was processed out. I straightened back up, leaned into the dive-be a bullet, not a sail-trying to relish what I’d never known to be so pleasant before: the solitude of my own, and only my own, thoughts.įifteen-hundred-plus jumps and I’m just figuring that out, yeah. Would my lungs frost on the inside, shatter in my chest? Trying not to think like that, I turned my head to the side, my left ear to the roar of the wind, and, even though I knew not to, I nearly tried to gulp some air in.

#Fall fall fall fall into the walls jump jump out of time software#

The way software has a kernel? This mosh pit was my pilot’s kernel. And I wasn’t sure he ever really left that moment, that wrongness of seeing himself across all the craziness, through the haze of whatever he’d been on. he was flying the plane at the same time he was losing his sense of self in that mosh pit, but he’d been losing himself in that mosh pit at fifteen as well. I’d been warned not to believe everything I read from somebody’s head, to ignore everything but the data, the information, but still, right? The way the pilot had been dwelling on this, it was . . . But from whose point of view, right? Or was the pilot’s angle back on himself a kind of condensation of the whole experience? Did he have this kind of angle and distance because he was half a life older already, always receding more and more from the punk kid he’d been? That sweaty, bare-chested kid jumping and slamming and losing himself in the music, his mouth and lips locked in a constant mute roar, it was the pilot, which made me knee-jerk think this was a memory, maybe. And not just that: there was another kid in the mosh pit, too far off to ever jam into with a shoulder, but the pilot hadn’t wanted to, didn’t know what would happen if he did.

#Fall fall fall fall into the walls jump jump out of time crack#

not exactly the song blasting in his earbuds-music, I’d been told, would keep his mind too busy for me to crack into-but what that song was carving up from his memory: a concert he’d been to when he was fifteen. What I sponged in from the pilot, it was . . . It’s more like rubbing a dry sponge against a wet one. I don’t think mind-to-mind really needs language, even. There’s no scroll, no crawl, no subtitles. Reading minds isn’t like watching words appear in glowing letters on a board, either. It doesn’t make me smarter-I wish-but the latent telepathy we’re all born with and never have access to except to call it ‘instinct,’ it manifests, it unspools, it reaches out for whoever it can hook into, meaning that, for the whole climb up, the pilot’s skull was, to me, glass. The image I got during orientation was a coked-up hamster on a wheel, going faster and faster until the blood from its paws is a spray, striping the woodchip floor then back wall then clear ceiling then front wall of its habitat. All the shackles fall away, the mind can finally overclock like it’s probably been wanting to do since humanity stepped out onto the savanna. The disinhibitor is great, don’t get me wrong.

Every sliver or glimmer of a wisp of a thought. It should be a snap, except for the neural disinhibitor misting through the dendritic space of every thought I’m trying to have-every half a thought. At ten seconds for the first thousand feet and about five seconds for each thousand feet after that, that should mean no more than half a minute of anoxia. I step out of the plane at closer to eighteen, with the idea I can hold my breath for four thousand feet of terminal velocity. The ceiling for a jump without oxygen is fourteen thousand feet, give or take a football field or two.