Milo, 7 years old, walked the bumpy mile of sidewalk to the new development being built adjacent to his mother’s apartment complex. The air was sticky, and construction workers toiled under the hot Ohio sun.

Grasshoppers sprung from long grass and clung like chip clips to Milo’s shirt, but he didn’t mind as they spat their tobacco juice on his sweat stained clothes. Once they registered Milo as a slow moving iceberg, they flew away, the recoil of their limbs like a gentle rubber band snap against skin.

LEMONADE in bold assured letters that shrunk as they reached the margins. 50 cents per styrofoam cup of sweet Country Time concentrate.

Milo had done the math. 8 quarts of concentrate for $2.79. He could make it stretch to 80 cups because the workers often wanted it ‘less sweet.’ Milo turned a 30.00 profit every single day.

$25,000.00 was the goal. It was the cost of ELITE, the classical music feeder program - 3 months and any classical music program in the United States was an automatic acceptance.

Remy had told Milo that when he was 16, his mother had gotten sick, and so he had to stop taking lessons, and eventually sell his cello, Eleanore, for $5,000.00 for his mother’s treatments. She died just before his 19th birthday. His dreams died shortly thereafter.

Milo was supposed to be at soccer practice. An after school program where Mr. Deiter would constantly yell ‘BOOT IT MILO! BOOT IT! DON’T BE SCARED!’

But Milo wasn’t a ‘booter.’ He liked the wind rustling his hair and the orange slices, and the high fives at the end of practice, but he didn’t enjoy booting. What if someone else tried to boot the ball hurtling toward him and his shin snapped like balsa? What if he collided with an excited pigtailed tornado with juice-mouth? Milo was hyper aware that any moment, his life could change without his permission, which left him in a fearful stasis.

But the lemonade stand was Milo’s ticket to a life of happiness. His seven year old scrawl:

1. Sell lemonade

2. Send Remy to ELITE

3. Fall in love and live happily ever after

A simple plan that took merely 8 years to complete. The blink of an eye in 3 lives’ time.

—-

Milo opened the account under his mother’s name. It was the 90’s, and precocious children carrying pounds of quarters every week to the local Huntington Bank seemed normal, expeditious even.

Mrs. Evangelista, the bank teller, always smiled down at Milo. Milo was nervous that Mrs. Evangelista would find counting Milo’s change to be a hassle. Milo often found himself to be a hassle to others. But not Mrs. Evangelista. Mrs. Evangelista always smiled.

‘Your lemonade must be extra sweet, young man! Show me the money!!’ (Milo was too young to understand the reference, but Mrs. Evangelista was very entertained regardless)

Milo smiled nervously.

‘Make sure to save me a glass next time,’ Mrs. Evangelista handed Milo a bright red sucker with a looped paper handle wrapped in cellophane, ‘A sweetie for a sweetie.’

So Milo brought Mrs. Evangelista a glass. Every week for 9 years, until he was ready to ask Mrs. Evangelista for a cashier’s check for $25,000.00.

Mrs. Evangelista, now near retiring age, sipped the Countrytime, the now finer lines around her mouth, pulled into a yellowing smile. Mrs. Evangelista said menthols were her ‘escape.’

She smiled as the printer shrieked to life.

‘I’m so proud of you, young man!’

‘Oh?’

‘Your mother must be very proud.’

‘Oh-’

Mrs. Evangelista understood.

‘Well, young man, I am very proud of you. Let me know which school this is for so I can send you a postcard. Don’t forget about us!’

Milo didn’t know what to say. In his past two lives he had never met Mrs. Evangelista. He had never met anyone, really. Now he knew 11 construction workers, and the names of their children, their wives, and how sweet they liked their lemonade (3 scoops for Rodney, one and a half for Jake L.)

For Milo’s 13th birthday they bought him a lemon press ‘Only for special occasions!’

Milo felt something. A swelling in his chest. He didn’t know it at the time, but it was the feeling of belonging. Something he had never felt before.

The printer squawked to a halt. Mrs. Evangelista rolled a stamp, and deftly clonked a seal of authenticity.

‘I… thank you.’

Mrs. Evangelista slid the red lollipop across the counter to Milo. Milo reached for it and their hands touched. Mrs. Evangelista squeezed Milo’s hand. Milo felt a sting in the corner of his eyes. He looked up, and Mrs. Evangelista’s eyes were also misted.

‘Keep your windows closed, Milo. I think it’s allergy season.’

—

Milo relished the cold bite of the library air conditioning.

He typed the letter on a yellowing keyboard, the clack of the rhythm tickling his brain.

‘Dear Remington,

An anonymous donor has made it possible for you to attend the ELITE Summer Intensive this August nestled deep in the Adirondacks.

We have received your audition video, and look forward to your acceptance.’

Milo hit send. He now needed to pack his bags for a summer he would not soon forget.

Suck.

Evacuate.

Cry.

Suck. Evacuate. Cry.

Suck Evacuate Cry.

Suck. Evacuate.

And then a kick!

Motor skills for little Milo. Suck. Evacuate. Cry. Suck. Evacuate Cry.

Kick! Kick! Kick!

Suck. Evacuate. Cry.

Rolling over was a momentous day for young Milo. Everyone cheered. It was the best day of his young life.

After 3 years he had his first indelible memory. He touched the flame of a burning candle. It danced so beautifully and he was hypnotized. He learned quickly that curiosity led to danger.

Pain. Flames caused pain. Don’t touch the flames, Milo learned. Don’t go near them. Protect yourself, from light sockets and the paring knife his mother used to perfectly slide Fuji apples.

Milo’s mother often caught him staring into the distance as young children do. However, Milo’s mother’s favorite saying was ‘curiosity killed all of the cats.’ She was a Korean immigrant, his father had left at a young age, back to Japan. Milo often thought of what his life would be like if his father were around.

But curiosity killed all the cats, and Milo loved animals.

As the sea of Mundays (mundane days) fluttered past his visage like falling autumn foliage, days looked more or less the same. Milo never made decisions. He simply moved from stage to stage of his life one methodical step at a time. Almost nothing of note to recall.

Except for one memory. It slipped out of the annals of his hippocampus one evening on his 28th birthday. Milo had two Aperol spritzes at an office work party. He found himself crimson in the corners of his eyes. Hot blood pumping a single rivulet of sweat, meandering down his spine, when Echo Menendez opened the door for Milo, and in a grand gesture, kissed Milo’s hand.

A moment of exaggerated almost comical chivalry.

Echo’s mother was the life of the office party every quarter. She didn’t work at the office, but she made lumpia. And it’s something Milo often looked forward to. It never occurred to Milo to befriend Echo, that maybe he could taste the crisp golden wrappers more than seasonally.

But back to the kiss.

Echo’s lips on the back of Milo’s hand.

Ever so gentle.

Milo blushed under the disgusting fluorescent lighting.

The contact lit up his mind like the final rays of a dusky sun. Milo felt this almost uncomfortable certainty, like deja vu, that he had been kissed like this before.

Deja vu is a curious feeling. A lurch in the universe’s confines. A double take. A half breath and a slipping memory evaporating into the ether.

It sat in Milo’s mind like an itch. A mosquito bite of the mind that he couldn’t satiate. And then Milo soon forgot.

Years and decades, nothing of note.

Because that’s how Milo was trained to exist and function in this lifetime.

He was trained to be nothing of note.

But that feeling of familiarity came back to Milo once again, when he was pushed by the Carebot ™ to the window.

One week before his world would end. He thought often of Echo, kissing his hand, a brief spike in dopamine. Echo had tragically passed 13 years later. Psoriasis of the liver. He was a fun drunk and passed in excruciating but contented pain.

Milo watched the spider on the sill, basking in the afternoon, the threads of his abode coming in and out of focus to Milo’s tired eyes.

Seven days left. Milo looked out at the garden maze, the walls of which he never set foot beyond. Or wheeled by his Carebot ™ .

Seven days, and Milo would be gone. He felt a sick uncertain relief by the certainty.

Milo looked out at the garden once more, and noticed a man. Passing over Milo’s face was a look of scant recognition.

It couldn’t be.

‘Carebot ™ , take me to the garden maze.’

—-

Milo was lost.

He thought he perhaps knew the way to the center of the maze, as when he slowly wheeled through the adjacent rose garden, Milo felt a clinging sense of familiarity. That perhaps he had been her before, but of course that was impossible.

Curiosity had killed all the cats, and Milo was certain to never be a curious fellow. But something inside of him, a calcified pittance of intuition, told Milo to reach the center of the maze.

He was stuck. Turned around and hopeless, while the sun nearly crested the tall hedges.

‘Would you like to return to your suite, Mr. Kanazawa?’

Milo didn’t respond, instead kept pushing onward.

‘Override and switch to manual.’

‘Very well.’

Milo took the lead, and immediately hit a gnarled root. He spilled unceremoniously onto the dirt path.

‘Carebot ™ help me up.’

‘Apologies Mr. Kanazawa, you have not upgraded your membership to the Platinum Services which include and cover manual override activities.’

‘Upgrade to Platinum Services.’

‘Apologies Mr. Kanazawa, you only have seven days of funding left in your account. Would you like me to contact your emergency listing?’

‘No. Please activate alarm for assistance.’

‘Very well. Alarm activated. Your account is not upgraded to Platinum Services so signal is out of range.’

‘Oh for fucks-’

‘Excuse me, are you lost?’

Milo looked up, and above him was the face of an angel. A face that came to Milo’s mind in moments of exhaustion. A respite. In deep slumber, and in scant few times of enjoyment.

It was Remy. It was the kiss on his hand. Milo was not curious, but perhaps he was clairvoyant.

‘I was just returning back to the center for the evening. Would you like to join me?’

‘I would. I would like that very much.’

—

The next seven days were a waking dream for Milo. A lucidity he had not felt since… Since perhaps before this lifetime, even.

Milo and Remy listened to music. Remy wanted to be a cellist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Milo knew nothing of classical music, but felt something he hadn’t felt since he was three years old.

Curious.

Remy was a flame, but instead of hurting Milo, it consumed him. It purified him. It made him feel alive.

They talked through the night and into the early morning.

Remy apologized to Milo for speaking too much. Remy said that he always spoke too much, but Milo didn’t mind because Milo was always told not to speak unless spoken to, so it gave him the permission he needed.

Remy asked Milo out the next night. Milo’s first date. Milo didn’t know what to wear, so he chose his dark blue jump suit. Carebot ™ styled Milo’s hair, which grew like overgrown wheatgrass from the concrete. This was included in Milo’s Bronze Services Package for which he was grateful.

Remy asked Milo what he wanted to be when he grew up over a glass of Red Wine. It gave Milo heartburn, but he didn’t want to be a bother so he bravely burped in discreet silence, while Remy excitedly told Milo about all the dreams he never pursued. Remy had 9 days left.

He would miss Milo when he was gone. And just like that, six days evaporated like mist on the horizon.

One hour left. Milo smiled. Somehow he knew that he would enjoy this last hour of his life, and that this lifetime was beautiful, because he got to spend 168 hours with someone he wished he lived a lifetime with.

A knock at Milo’s door.

It was Remy with a box. A cello.

Milo sat with bated breath as Remy tightened the bow and expertly plucked the strings, like two old friends catching up, a contained ebullience.

Remy had shown Milo the fountain on Day 3, and showed photos of himself as a young man playing cello at the Penn Station New York Subway stop roughly halfway through the underpass between the blue and red lines.

Milo had only one hour, but a lifetime of curiosity.

He watched the seconds slip away like sand. He looked up with Remy’s eyes on him.

Remy kissed Milo’s hand, and Milo knew.

Perhaps this happened before in a past life.

But in this beautiful life, Milo was 168 more times satisfied.

Milo pulled Remy in and kissed him.

Curiosity did indeed lead Milo back to the fire, and this burning was white hot. His mother was right. But flame also created life, no? Electricity? Milo felt a oneness in the slipstream between himself and Remy.

‘You have 30 seconds.’

Tears had already fallen down the crags of Remy’s once high cheekbones.

‘Please play for me.’

Remy plays once more.

‘I love… I-’

‘I know. I know…’

Milo’s eyes closed.

The cold seeped into his bones, but then again, a warmth. And suddenly

Blinding light and sharp air in lungs.

‘Milo. I’ll call him Milo.’

And that is how Milo’s third life began.

That single positive memory’s name was Remy. Milo didn’t simply meet him, but sensed him.

He decided he wanted to spend his final hour of life being pushed by his CAREBOT ™ around the gardens of the Conclusion Facility where cancer had been slowly ravaging his body for the past 3 years.

The 36 blood transfusions, the advanced genetic therapies, and surgical replacements no longer were slowing the inevitable march of time that comes for us all, even with all the medical advancements of 2073. Time is innovation, but it’s not magic. Not yet.

Milo stopped by the Rose Garden. A place that mimicked once was. A facsimile - a copy of a copy of memories slowly fading from mind. He hated the smell, but he loved the bees. Real bees had gone extinct on Milo’s 50th birthday - at least something finally happened in his droll existence, but it seemed that life was just one tragedy after the next.

These mechanical bees’ wings moved at the exact speed of their progenitors which allowed for the signature hum to lull Milo’s constant low-grade anxiety into a mild semblance of relaxation. Any sound from the time before the Great Automation was a comfort to ‘old’ souls like Milo.

He never had a family to visit him, he never had a hobby to keep his attention. But he loved that even the mechanical bees danced. Researchers are still puzzled by it to this day. They had managed to copy the brains of bees by cryogenically freezing the specimens and slicing their tiny bodies paper thin, like roast beef round at a deli counter. They scanned the pieces, and built a bee from scratch. Not playing God, but xeroxing him or her or them. Milo was not religious, but he did harbor a long held frustration against the machinations of the universe, which he understood in his mind simply only as indigestion. Something that his medications could indeed mitigate.

But even though the bees were programmed to only pollinate, for the fate of the world depended on their prime objective and skills (the fate of the world was often held in the balance after Milo’s 50th birthday) they still learned to dance. Taking time to shuffle about, to express joy or frustration, to dance until their dying heartbeat, where they curled slowly in the rays of the sun and fell to dust.

Milo sat in his favorite spot, which was the northeast corner of the yards, just outside of a tall shrubbery maze. He hated the twists and turns of greenery before him. The shrubbery was too high for him to know his bearings so he never tried finding the center. But that was Milo in a nutshell. He rarely if ever tried. It kept him safe, but at the cost of anything interesting ever happening to him. Because rarely do curious things happen to those that do not try. Milo unfortunately never learned that in his 86 years, which were nearly up.

Milo sat with a dull ache in his abdomen, the real pain kept at bay with the Morphine-L - a much more concentrated pain reliever that made his head sing and radiate pleasure in soft undulations. It made the sun tickle in its slight prickly caress, all while his limbs enjoyed the feeling of floating just under the surface of a warm ocean current.

He sat and smiled. What a merciful way to die. He smiled not because he enjoyed his life but because he was glad his motor was finally slowing.

His eyes closed, and when he opened them, a chair was next to him. Milo turned and saw Remy. Remy’s hair was wild, his glasses askew. Glasses, what a strange choice. Who would willingly live with poor eye sight?

‘They’re real,’ said Remy with a knowing nod. ‘I had my eyes lasered for my 28th birthday - a little return to Saturn gift. They started going again at 70, and instead of replacement, I opted for a vintage look.’

Milo was shocked that someone was even speaking to him. He hadn’t spoken to another human in 6 years.

‘Have you been to the fountain?’

Milo stared blankly at Remy.

‘At the center of the garden. I throw a medallion in, wishing every day that I could perhaps find a beautiful partner in crime. Well, maybe not crime per se, but a partner in commiseration. Maybe he’ll appear one day. I don’t have many precious left.’

Remy smiles at Milo.

Milo blushes. He hadn’t blushed since his 69th birthday. I’m sure you can imagine the jokes.

‘How much time do you have?’

Milo holds up his life meter ™ . 46 minutes now.

‘Oh, congratulations and my condolences on your final moments. But I think you’re just in time. I think we can make it.’ Remy nods to his Careborg ™ . The Careborg ™ begins pushing Remy to the maze entrance. He stops. ‘I know you have nothing better to do.’

It took them 16 minutes. Remy already knew the way, so he picked the correct pathways, while Milo trailed behind him.

Milo’s heart beat quicker and sweat began to bead on his brow. He hadn’t done something out of his path for the last 9 years. On his 77th birthday, he peeled an orange instead of slicing it.

He didn’t enjoy it.

The fountain came into view, and it was both a marvel and somewhat pedestrian. A marvel because Milo had seen nothing new in 6 years. His 80th birthday a spider had woven a web in the corner of his window. Milo sat entranced for three days until the spider curled gently, never to unfurl again.

‘I was here earlier, but I’m glad I caught you on the way out.’

‘You didn’t have to come all this way again!’

‘No. It seems I did. To shuffle off this mortal coil on the margins, never to see the heart of it all, would be a tragedy, no?’

Milo takes this in. Remy’s right. It feels like the tiniest tear in the innermost wall of Milo’s heart.

They sit. Remy hands Milo a 600 point medallion. Milo lifts his brow. Remy laughs.

‘I love the feel of real money. Reminds me of the olden days. When money still existed.’

Milo is about to flip the coin, but Remy stops him.

‘You have to make a wish!’

Milo nods. He studies Remy’s face, whose eyes are trained on the fountain in wait.

Milo closes his eyes.

The medallion plunks to the bottom of the shallow pool.

Remy smiles. ‘I should get you back home now before it’s all over. Your family must be waiting.’

Remy begins to turn, but Milo catches Remy’s hand. It was something Milo had never done before. He surprised even himself.

‘I have 30 minutes left. Will- will you spend them with me?’

Remy measures Milo’s being with his soft and curious eyes. His hand gently grips back.

Milo blushes. It stings slightly. His blood had nearly forgotten its way to the tips of his capillaries.

Remy comes closer to Milo. And Milo’s heart beats faster.

14 minutes passed like seconds.

Milo’s forehead beads with sweat, but his mouth and throat are brambled. He wasn’t certain of the reason. His medications should mitigate symptoms such as this. Milo was having difficulty swallowing. But he hadn’t had allergies since his PanAllergyFree ™ shot in 2044.

Perhaps he was dying. Perhaps the Lifemeter ™ was slightly off. Milo’s heart was racing but he was sitting still. And then it finally hit him. This feeling. His calcified heart feeling a measure of warmth.

Was this love? Or the start of it? His brain felt bathed in ocean, his eyes, soft porchlight.

6 minutes left.

Milo smiled. Uncontrollably. He was happy he got to feel this. To sit next to someone who wanted to spend time with him. Maybe 5 minutes was enough. Each second felt like an eternity. Maybe the quietly sullen birthdays and the steady punching of the metaphorical and physical clock these last 80 solar cycles were worth it because at least he got to feel it. This mythic feeling that all those who feel deeply know so intimately.

At least he-

Electricity buzzes up Milo’s spine as Remy touches his lips to the back of Milo’s hand.

Milo swears he could hear music.

‘What’s that sound?’

‘Could be a goldfinch, or a phoebe.’

‘It sounds… It sounds like symphony.’

‘Good night, sweet prince.’

Milo looks into Remy’s eyes.

‘And flights of angels sing thee to thy-’

‘Thank you Remy, Thank-’

Milo’s eyes close, as his warranty on life finally expires.

He feels a shortness of breath, a pull of anxiety, and then a surprising warmth. Like he was being held. He curls into himself like his silky window sill companion and-

Stillness.

Until he swears he hears echoes.

Distant voices. Urgent but calm. Maternal even. He hears moans from a room away.

And suddenly cold. Cold hard… Air…?

Milo’s eyes struggled to blink open as he struggles to gasp for air. His lungs open. Sweet oxygen, while coughing up thick viscous fluid.

He screams as he is passed to a warm body that instantly calms him. A familiar heartbeat.

The doctor hands Milo off to a woman. A scent that hadn’t moved through his olfactory since he was 49 years old when his own mother passed away. He swears that they smell identical.

The last moment of death, comforting him with his first scent of birth. Cyclic poetry.

‘Congratulations, Mrs. Kanazawa. It’s a boy.’

The mother smiles. She sniffs her baby, who smells like chamomile and chloride.

‘I’ll name him Milo,’ she says.

‘I’ll name him Milo.’

Please go watch and come back, but in summary:

Black Excellence is the myth of the individual - if you’re just talented enough you can ‘rise above’ your origins. We have seen this since slavery - if you’re the master’s favorite, if you entertain them, if you’re the hardest working, you get to sit at the master’s table, they’ll one day make a seat for you.

This is a myth because your belonging will always be conditional on your utility.

Black Power is the idea of creating infrastructure to support a system. To advocate for systemic change, to advocate for reparations for what black people built on stolen soil, not only in America, but globally.

However, history has shown that when black power begins to consolidate, whether it’s Tulsa, OK (Black Wall Street) or through protest music like Marvin Gaye, Tupac, or Michael Jackson singing about Palestine, this upsets the white supremacist power structures that are in place (white supremacy being inextricably linked to capitalism, and slavery being a main tenant of capitalism)

Asian America is now being fed this same myth in the form of not only the model minority myth (the idea that Asians are just ‘smarter’ and ‘more hard working’ than other people of color) but in the form of ‘Asian Excellence’ that if you just

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It conceals itself in the corners of the creative locus.

Laying its eggs.

A tick on the underbelly of the proverbial deer, just out of reach, syphoning blood and nutrients, leaving behind disease.

I have been asked by multiple AI companies to be a spokesperson for their work.

The temptation grows as the industry contracts.

‘It’s an AI that helps the creative process!’

‘It analyzes your writing and makes it easier!’

‘It organizes your thoughts!’

‘It houses your data on our servers for only 10.99 a month!’

‘Become the next Steven Spielberg!’

‘The next Lena Dunham!’

‘The next Issa Rae!’

$1,000.00 per post. $2,000.00.

$5,000.00!

I am unemployed.

5 odd jobs to support this odd life. This odd tumultuous creative landscape, a spreading desert. Sparse if little reforestation.

But AI was also an alarm in the firehouse. The fire burned swiftly, tearing through our humble subsistence, tearing away our work overnight.

‘We’re going to use AI now.’

‘We just fed your work to AI.’

I realized

That maybe I was not as creatively free as I had once boasted.

That I wasn’t making the genuine change I thought I could do inside the big box systems.

That maybe I was in fact, a tick drinking the poisoned blood of the capitalist calf.

My mouth is sardonic

My eyes are sharp

But my words are called forth from hours, days, months, buried in dusty tomes.

Heavy lidded eyes, and ice cold water from buzzing drinking fountains.

Biting cold air conditioning, yellowing maps, and the sweet stale scent of mildew and manuscript.

My words are called forth from Alexandria, from a bucket of blood on a teenage telepath, from the cockpit of a spacecraft traveling at lightspeed.

My mind has access to infinite and to what is yet to be.

But maybe I am a coconut and lyme.

Hollowed from the tick and the tock.

Not will the parasite die after satiation, but will I survive?