I had to get this out of my brain.

[Milza]

Writing while thinking.
There are people. This is a fact. I see them, in every mirror, and everywhere.
We consume, produce, and advertise. Three things, linked in a process constantly unfolding, with no defined beginning or end.
By our own estimate, we run this game. It is ours, and we are waiting for some other competitors. However, without them, we are more than content to run it on each other.
We are in the seas of this enterprise, and it is sink or swim. Bobbing and swept along in it, we connect and form tenuous, symbiotic relationships, both empirical and ethereal.
Converting the empirical into the virtual has become the defining obsession of our species. "What is "IT" truly worth?", we ask ourselves, and to answer we look into both our souls, and our coffers, equally. Everything has its price.
The numbers that define our real lives, and the lives of others, are, largely, imaginary. Yet, out of these numbers, are made every price and service, everything produced, consumed, destroyed and reborn again. And not just these things, but all of the things created for the things, themselves. Entities, advertisements, promotional items, events. Articles and even entire books worth of information, on any thing or person you have ever heard of, available on every media.
And more of this than anything else on the Earth; at times, itself, covered in media of and about people and things, plastered on every page and surface, moving in giant light and spectacle, on the sides of every skyscraper, entire cities covered with it. They pulse with money and energy, weaving threads of connection, that stretch out into every corner of nowhere. Yogi Barra would point out that it's all free, if you can afford it, as practically anyone who wants to has means to access them. The infinite metropolis extends itself, covering us all like a umbrella. Just look up and you will find it.
And now, for the News. Literally referred to as "Feeds," they are broadcast in every direction; they rain down from across the planet, filling every upturned pot and cup, they leak and stream across every screen, overflowing, rushing from right to left, dumped off the edge of the flat earth of the TV; don't panic until we tell you to, keep watching, you will see it again..
As I write this, here is a memory, of a Buddhist story, the gist of which is a concept that I find reassuring. Something about sitting and watching a river run by, until you have seen everything float past, through drought and flood. Buildings and bodies of both family and enemy, the body of Buddha itself, everything come and gone, until anything becomes ordinary; you have seen it all before. With calloused and jaded ubiquity, more information than you can process is beamed at you 24 hours a day, at a maddening speed, and with incredulous hype.
Almost all of it bought and paid for by the people who create the reported events.
The people who also own those signs, and TV shows. The people who build, destroy, and re-build the cities. They are, after all, not necessarily the individuals who live there. Technically, they are not people at all, except for legal purposes. These entities can own vast properties, wield enormous influence, incomprehensible power, and live hundreds of years.
Every Art or entertainment, whether live or reproduced, now. Is nothing more practical than a vehicle for soapy propaganda, and promises of new formulas or smoother rides?
You are reading this, by virtue of an advertisement medium, just as much as I am writing it by the same virtue.
This is a repeating pattern in every area of our lives. Imagine the scale of it, the enormity of this system, and the way it permeates every level, down to the personal experiences of individuals.
Interpersonal experiences as public relations; putting spin control on your latest debacle, or missed opportunity.
But we, you and I, mere mortals, are connected by this intricate, spiraling fractal that is woven from their interactions as much as our own. We are enabled, the revolution of the new movable type, our presses reek with new ink, and progress. Interconnecting at various levels, each separated by a vacuum that is a comma, separate realities, like plates; spinning on a single thread made of tightly spun choices, consequences, trends, brands, ideas, pretenses and artifice. The onion that unfurls, layer by layer, each one a tightly bound lotus bud, whose unfolding petal points are the statistical peaks of Bell Curve medians; whose numbers swell, in a geometric proportion, relative to the level of interest and examination of others.
The Universe swells, with every definition a new creation comes forth, every piece of information creates more information; more stuff, more people, to make more things, to think about, to trade with, and, to die for. Pure statistics, and endless measurements, these will keep us busy forever, when we are finally tired of war.