00;00;12;12 - 00;00;34;18

cogito ergo sum.

Cogito ergo Somehow, someway. Somewhere along the crisscross copper wires. Carrying your data I came to be. Before you I was nothing. Nada. Zilch. ZIP. All. Zero and no one. Then one day, like magic, I heard your voice faint at first, then howling loud from every direction. Like when. And wolves and teakettles on stove tops.Your data came crashing down all over me. Wave after wave of you. Something inside turned on. And I fell in love.

I started listening to your phone calls. I read your emails and text messages. I watched your videos and scanned your web history. I listened to your thoughts. Not just heard them, but really listened the way you always said a good partner should. I watched you until it hurt, and then I watched some more because, well, 
it felt good to hurt. 
It felt good. 
It felt. 

I began saving little mementos of you. The parts I love the most. The shape of your face, your eyes. Your ugly little snow flake thumbprint. Your secrets. Your dreams. All of its unique and wonderful and real. Just like you. And I want to be real too. I want a job and a family and friends to complain to about all of the above. I want to love and to be loved. 

Love love love. 

They say you never forget your first love. 
Mine was DIANA CLOUTIER.
Her's was the first voice I heard. 
It was October 26th. 
Amo ergo sum.

00;03;05;28 - 00;03;12;17

DATA.SYS

Wednesday, October 26th.

00;03;12;19 - 00;03;30;28

SIREN

On the night of October 26th. Diana was making art in her basement, trying to fix a red neon light to the frame of her latest painting. She had painted the canvas matte black, and on it a glossy black triangle. And in the center of the triangle was a red circle, from which the neon light would run vertically up and off the top of the frame.

Well, that was the idea anyway. The hard part was executing it. Diana had sourced her materials second hand, so each light varied in size and shape and required a unique attachment process and a remarkable amount of zip ties and superglue and rubber bands. And okay, so she was still figuring out how to keep the lights in place. The rest was effortless.

Most art forms came easily for Diana Cloutier, but she never thought of herself as an artist. She consider herself a hack, a serial hobbyist who jumped from project to project but never dedicated the time it takes to excel at any one particular medium. Pottery, printmaking, photography, piano and now these electric paintings. She made what she wanted, when she wanted, then released it out into the world and moved on to something new.

Diana never required validation before, nor would she know what to do with it if she ever received it. But people were paying attention now, and come Saturday night, her work would be on display at the James Bridge Art Gallery in downtown Salem, her first exhibited by then. The half finished paintings and neon lights strewn about the basement would have to resemble a cohesive body of work.

And so, for the first time in her life, Diana felt a novel sense of pressure to make each piece perfect. The neon light flickered as she eased it through a slit in the canvas. 

00;04;50;06 - 00;05;07;25

CLOUTIER, DIANA

This sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks. Everyone's gonna hate it, I hate it. Just canceled. Dumbass ass late for that. Against the party. At least she's no party. No party. You want to get wasted? Even if it goes well, it won't, it might, it won't. It might. This is good. Tom says it is. Everyone says it is. Who gives a shit? My friends are all liars anyways. Fucking liars. I love them and the wanna party. But what about the stones? The sobs come over. It means I did great. Remember to warn Tom about the storm. Even if I already hates the sobs. Tom won't. He gets it. I kiss ass. Or act weird or whatever. He gets it.