Talk to the Border Guard

She hands the border guard her passport, image current, letter M obsolete, a mismatched combination laminated with a hologram. Every time, she prays, she dresses androgynously, despite her surgical modifications that prevent any of her clothes from looking androgynous any longer. She modulates her voice below it's new trained register, to a more ambiguous hertz. She relies on an aesthetic of confusion, and a practiced script, having answered these questions in uncountable iterations, in order to be close to her beating heart, warmth, home, her smiling eyes. The guard swipes the radio frequency identification chip embedded in her passport through a reader, while she wonders what digital tomes dance in front of his eyes, her arrest record, her father's drug conviction, her illegal download bitcount, her dead name, her medical records, her number of completed credits in her program of study, the list of non-integrated gap countries she has frequented.

Hack the Border Guard's Network | Wait and Hope