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The new flesh feeds on its appearance.
If it is not seen, it does not live. For its own survival, the new flesh constantly grows and absorbs inward looking eyes, observing its own form from all the different angles its expansion permits.
The new flesh is straight.
Since its legibility is as fluid as its desires, it will meet you with an honesty beyond all forms of play: it can never be something else than itself.
The new flesh enjoys itself.
It has never learned how not to have a good time (except when alone). Isn't that just another reason to celebrate life to the fullest.
The new flesh is playful.
It performs as a topological playground, finding ever new ways to express - not itself (as it is always the indivisible subject and object of its expression), but the communicative imperative it cannot escape.
The new flesh is self-contained.
Folded into the safety of its own future history, it eyes the world as something to move through, not inhabit.
The new flesh feels everything at once.
Its emotions have so many layers they are near indistinguishable. That is why their consequences are always up to interpretation.
The new flesh is self-absorbed.
Even when in company, it is so busy consuming itself that it needs visual proof to later remember it was not, in fact, alone.
The new flesh is tasteful.
It is born (again): salty and sugary, wet and powdery, tingly under the tongue.
The new flesh is old from the start.
Memories are part of its cellular structure. Material associations binding and blending living and dead matter into one: It is aged meat growing from young skin.
The new flesh is full of itself.
Whole families could feed on its mouthiness, if they still existed. The new flesh is not happy about this though. It just cannot help it, and there isn't anyone else left to help either.
The new flesh is living next door.
And if "next door" does not mean anything to you, it will eventually come knocking at yours.
The new flesh grows around what it sees.
All of its being serves to manifest a gaze older than itself. It does not matter that there really is nothing to see anymore: The new flesh lives dreams. Believing is seeing.
The new flesh is constantly surprised.
Every experience is bound to change its form, so it is better off encountering everything as new. The new flesh has no memory, it is memory. It will never forget, because it cannot remember.
The new flesh means business.
There is plenty of reason for a gnawing suspicion: that being the new flesh might not be a zero sum game, but might mean cannibalizing your own company.
The new flesh is hyperreal.
In its own memory, it has never been and can therefore never be uniformely smooth, dry, clean or whatever else once was considered desirable in the times before it became the new flesh. Its desirability lies in the detailedness of its variability.
The new flesh is angelic.
It is word getting around become flesh. Humankind spelled out in single digits. The hydraulics of sociality spreading its affective wings, raining manna torn from its ribs on viral landscapes.
The new flesh is happy.
Since its meat is sensitive to your gaze and you keep looking at it.... your eyeballs rolling along its crevices... you know. It does not desire much more than that.
The new flesh is repurposed.
Severed and reassembled from different times and places and lives, it melds together its own histories and futures into one joyously painful and present blind spot.
The new flesh is not afraid of losing itself.
There is always another surface beneath its surface. Rip off whatever you want, there will be more.
The new flesh is trustful.
It cannot be hurt by anyone except itself. So why should it fear you when it longs for context so much?
The new flesh is on display.
It whispers: This is what you could want. It whispers: Just imagine what we could be together, united. It whispers: Lick all your lips, if you have a tongue.
The new flesh is a digital native.
Born of the networked collective imaginary, it mutates and transforms into whatever form is necessary for it to operate.
The new flesh is patient.
It has grown used to not being touched, but pressed. So it has come to enjoy pressure and rely on it to keep itself in formation.
The new flesh is close to you.
It has been for long. You head was lying on its shoulder, you pressed your lips on its cheek, you smelled the aroma of its neck and stroked its earlobe with the tip of your nose before.
The new flesh is mucous.
It absent-mindedly starts to secrete when it feels a gaze on its surfaces. It is juicy, well-protected and slippery to deal with.