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Somewhere in Buenos Aires, Argentina, a bubbling, fizzy sound—like something erupting from a cavern. Trying to escape the bomb, the ghost fumbles desperately at the door. Too late: its component atoms scatter across a three-block radius.

Global currents carry the atoms to Australia. There, the ghost reassembles itself in deepest, darkest Sydney. It washes dishes, works for Rupert Murdoch, edits a magazine, publishes a handful of short stories. It self-publishes a novella about escaping the flesh.

It freelances as a book reviewer. It teaches media and cultural studies. It receives a PhD in philosophy on the links between Descartes’ biological mechanicism and posthumanism.

The ghost should be dead, deader than it already is.

Miraculously, the atoms disperse again. A return journey.

Landing in Argentine Patagonia, the ghost rebuilds itself. It becomes a lecturer. A researcher. Director of an academic think-tank (special subjects: the philosophy of technology; posthumanism; Gilbert Simondon). It writes novels, plays and more short stories. It makes music that suits its mood.

The ghost looks at the pretty colours. Locks in the target. It should make the ghost all warm and fuzzy but it doesn’t.

A loud, dry crack. Home again at last.

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