Laure came. So did Allison. Margaret arrived and then Beth and Suzanne and Sara and Melon. Melon dribbled out some forbidden data and everyone dragged it into their mobile icons and then we left.
Instantaneously, we all arrived at the next site.
It was a beach with no one on it.
We all stripped down to bare access codes and left our icons dangling.
A melange of prostheses intermingled and then there was the unexpected impact of a hungry tide programmed to devour us.
We were not prepared for this sudden wash of near-apocalyptic information and it was only our ability to network all of our processing power at once that saved us.
Back in another, safer environment, this one more calm and meditational, Laure said that just before the group had collectively-teleported to this new site, there was an octopus of pleasure that had forged an ink-wrap around her body and that her operating system was now telling her that she would never be able to write the same way again.
Allison said the same thing happened to her. So did Margaret and Beth and Suzanne and Melon.
Since they were all me and I was not apprehendable, there soon followed a horrible feeling of creative occlusion which stopped me from continuing.