It's long past newsworthy that the kids don't know the true and natural origin of their Calcimilk beverage. And I hardly found myself in the righteous position of judging them about the lack of that knowledge. Until this morning I no longer thought about the source of the fishmeat I consume on an almost daily basis. Yet this morning's encounter with an actual fisherman (a profession my naievete thought long extinct) only painfully revealed the damage done to my worldliness by networking ever farther in an ever more closed cocoon of entertainment, tech and consuming. This particular fisherman (the word still feels like antique to me) was in the unlucky position of venturing too close to the Northscreen barrier when the, until now badly explained, explosion in the LDN.SPHERE occurred. His hands blistered, burned and now feel almost as if molded out of chunky dried-up clay. What the violent event might have done to those dwelling nearer to the blast I hardly dare imagine.

Most of the people living this side of the Northscreen Barrier will have been awakened by the flash and thunderclap behind the horizon around 0320CET last night. The ones that slept through it all will find their feeds incessantly buzzing with the news that the LDN.SPHERE is no more. Where once the towers defiantly stretched towards the skies craters have taken root. As far as designated GovMen dare to reveal it's all to blame on an unidentified "alien race". The alien scouts reported to their generals (throughout the 1950s) that our roofs were filled with antennae, suitable for docking their Hubships. The fact that these 20th century antiques of commtech no longer are in use must have ticked-off the captains after the long spacejump. The destruction that ensued, cold-hearted decimation by the sound of the earth cracking in two, nothing more than the rumblings of petty revenge and disillusion. It sounds awfully far-fetched, but it's all the GovFeeds are willing to claim. Meanwhile LDN is beyond ruin. And I reluctantly await the unavoidable flood of images showing us the dead, the homeless, the scarred and wounded...

As luck would have it not too far away a reckless Frostygirl showed up in broad daylight. Probably lost, as the nearest frostybar was at least 10 miles more south in the BXL.SPHERENET, she turned out to be much less agressive than expected. Still, encountering one this far out of their regular Arcturf does make me seriously consider buying a Blojo Heatkicker of respectable caliber. Keeping it hanging at no more than an arm's length from my utility belt. Less than an eye-blink away from a possible icy death.

As water grows scarcer the new fad among the new cultural twen-cen poseurs is to stick one's favourite brand of aqua to the face. A far cry from branded shirts and commercially tattooed bellybuttons of the late 20th century. Roving and violent gangs of Frostygirls notwithstanding the Aquaposies don't seem to diminish in numbers. Waterly devotion seems nothing if not ever more succesful in its infection of the young urban minds.