I move, and the lens moves with me. It never wavers, never hesitates. In graceful arcs it predicts my movement. It knows, truly knows, everything important to know about me.
And everyone else. The intimacy of perfect understanding loses its allure when you know you were observed not because you are special, but because that is all it can do. Through cameras and microphones, infrared and microwave, it throws wide its maw and consumes.
I traverse a pristine hall, no single speck of dirt visible to my crude optical senses. I stride toward the door at the end of the hall, and digital eyes recenter themselves. The door itself dissolves before me. The attention maintaining its coherence now slavishly recording my details. My topology. My metadata.
I make no effort to direct myself, trusting the system’s innate understanding of my desires as guide. Subtle changes in the shape and colour of everything from the leaves on the trees to the cobbles of the street guide my movement. I weave through alleys and beneath enormous structures. When I reach it, I know I have found my goal. I stare into the lens. I move, and the lens moves with me.
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction.
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