Fuzzy is speaking to me right now, as I sit at my desk, caught between dreaming and typing. She says she’s still stuck in the television. She’s only a concept, unable to manifest beyond her pixelated state of being. I always wondered what it might be like to live as a Pixel Chic. Her life was so glamorised but so simple. She was being controlled by a higher force — by buttons. Wake up, eat, walk, shop, sleep. It’s now that I realise we’re all pixelated. I don’t know how to step outside of the box, but every time I walk along the pavement with my dog tugging at the lead, I’m slowly figuring out how.
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Harvey was his name. He made me want to live inside of this television. He made me want to be a character, rather than a person. I thought it would be safer this way. To be a simulation. To harbour love inside of a screen and wield it the way I saw fit. That’s why I like to write about you, Dion.
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You’re warm.
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You’re safe.
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You’re ours.
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