PIPS

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You brace yourself.

Feet compelled to shift on the floor, sending a subconscious ache of counterbalance up your spine.

In another dimension simultaneous to yours, the teleological singularity takes a grip of your location, as it is want to do, and folds your desk, keyboard, and mouse into a place and time that happen to overlap with a biosynergentic compound that synchronises with electromagnetic waves pulsing through tiny sweat glands in your fingertips.

This message bridges your optic nerve, and you know that this is a moment to write that thing that you hold inside you. A necessary part hidden in your particular molecular structure that you are now compelled to press into the device. Finally, you can deliver this parcel. It is almost completely safe to do so. It is a test, of sorts, but one in which you form part of a much larger participant. You know who you are, but you do not know.

Write now. Then stop, and provide.