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49 Y o u r D a t a I s P o l i t i c a l Your presence rises from scavenging: pages and words and webs and signs. You’ve become a target but without the old spy store gadgets. I’d like to know what you know, not just your count. I click on you, then you click back, precious darling surface. We add, poke, text. On my iPhone, you’re called The Outlier. Your profile pic of a yellow vase is so allusory, so art, or your skirt flips up and you’re viral, or someone else outs you as the double-crossing wife because it’s Old West open season on Facebook. Pages ripple with alacrity, with betrayal and Outlook keeps the other engine purring and sneaky. Two presences. The real and the fable vanish before you and to them within barcode, a cornucopia of insight (a family’s fleecing, caravans of product, blurry pirated video). I’ll play Sarah McLachlan over your visage, elegiac, or someone will paste your face onto the porno performance artist baptized with secretion. I’ll be the cultural anxiety, and you can be the Luddite.We’ll be a perfect pairing of antediluvian (the wine) and digital (the host). ...

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