Outside his office window, the big fluffy butterfly-flakes of snow spinning down from the July sky were a sign. Darting his eyes to the nearby hanging mirror and seeing the surgically-grafted cuntlips hanging off his puffy old-man cheeks was a sign. The software program that had just a few minutes ago whispered to him that it was time to wake up so he could go back to the Death Terminal and delineate his physical deterioration was also a sign. Everything he did, everything he saw, was a sign pointing itself in the direction of being social, of engaging with a world whose landscape was rapidly becoming an asexual flow of impertinent data. His standard response to all of these random signs was that he had to get himself out into the electrosphere so that anyone who cared could measure his measure for whatever it was worth. Worth, or value, was the rustling of data. He was the only kind of artist that could now survive into the 21st century: he was an info-shaman.