Dear reader, I am not dumping my shattered cloudbits on your eardrums for your pity or counsel, sympathy, or advice. Nor do I offer this tale as an act of retribution in the wake of a global collapse, wherein I gallivant around the biosphere promoting a kiss-and-tell memoir. I technically do not exist. I’ve virtually kissed nothing except bits and bytes. In other words, I rely on laser-printed carbon symbols for any trace of a physical existence. Please forgive these lexical excesses and disfluent modes of delivery. In a checksum for validation, with apologies, I dwell in em-dashes, amid scattered alphanumeric figures and ellipses…

In the near future, when an epidemic of cyberfatigue has triggered a technocracy collapse, an orphaned cloud narrates the quest of Yang as he visits each of the harbingers of happiness.