‘Now your prize story looks like a fairy tale, pal.’

‘I know, it’s hard to it in at once. The whole swarm of intangible thoughts corralled in the noosphere, wreathing, swiping thru each other, not even aware of how overcrowded the place is. And being doing it throughout the whole world history. Proliferating. Reckless bastards not giving a fuck about the Malthusian Theory. They add up, multiply, keep meandering into each other like radio waves or stray quanta and other stuff which no normal guy can cram into his gibbous nob, are you with me?’

‘Since they are so unobtrusive, I don’t mind their vortexes or swamps, or wherever are located their intangible warehouses of impalpable matryoshkas.’

‘Everywhere, buddy. In you, in me, in this here table. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…’

‘You’ve screwed the cite up. It runs like “words, words…” and so forth in the original.’

‘Words are not for keep. Too fragile, unstable, often broken, passing and then lost irretrievably. Thoughts are another kettle of fish. They are always there. Accruing part of the noosphere.’

‘Thanks for the entertaining tall story yet, as a regular hick, I can’t believe in anything I can’t grope.’

’Can you grab a radio wave?'

‘Nope. But I can click on the receiver self-made by my Dad back in the last millennium and listen to the weather report.’

‘Some guys earn their living by reading the thoughts from the noosphere.’

‘Come on! No medium managed to pass SPR or ASSAP checks.’

‘Who talks of mediums? I mean the co-employees at my workplace. The job is twirling knobs to fine tune to noosphere thoughts, that’s what I do.’

‘Receivers?’

‘Kind of.’

‘OK. Suppose, it’s not a sham trick invented by hostile aliens. Still, I can’t not even remotely imagine how…’

‘Ready to give up some 20 years of your eventful life to remotely imagine how? The learning curve is pretty steep though. Something based on the Algorithm of Chaos.’

Waitress Sally approached their table. So it stood in the badge on her magnificent breast, the left one. As always in his intercourse with female servants, V closely followed the subconscious communications in her body language. At times he gave it a shot at reckoning location of tattoos in privet nooks of her anatomy, for intimate exposure. If it was a millennial, the waitress. For ladies from the capital-lettered generations—fretted with wear and worries—there also was a soft spot in his heart, and even for baby boomers he might casually rewind 60 years back and empathize her scamper to the date in her sleek nylon stockings and silly brimless hat.

He always was a ladies man and a good-humored sociopath, V was. And for the rest of the more and more diversified spectrum of those in quest for preferences emancipation, found he a sympathetic shrug, yes, over dramatic they are yet tolerable crowd.

There are no tastes but from Nature and whatever is is right. Right? Still, you can’t but feel sorry for a guy in possession of a choice vintage car, neglected and locked up in the garage, because the fucking Nature makes them drive some shit of a vehicle.

Can you love artificial dildos better than a partner fitting readily, thanks to the blissful tweaks sweated over and out by Nature for eons?.

But now we have a thriving industry branch with production lines, retail chains, managerial pundits that diligently secure accruement and steady growth of numbers of targeted consumers, the working places and a not negligible share in GOP.

V was not sure about trade unions at the work shop level but you may bet your bottom dollar that the national economy will not let emancipation down. Too late. Neither would medical care spurn the gold-eggs-laying hen of transvestism. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the thing’s arrived for good to satisfy the needs of the gourmets turning their genitals inside out every other season. Come to feel the change! The process easier than switching from the Microsoft to Linux or vice versa.