Baby-Fever: is a sci-fi short story I wrote at the end of 2023 and the beginning of 2024. It's about my baby fever, the desire to have a baby one day, which feels so unrealistic and surreal that it doesn’t make any sense to me. Not only am I not cis, but also the way society is structured, and me dealing with the weirdness I'm facing.

Right now, it's June 19, 2024. I have a clear day with structure, and I only took one quetiapine in the morning to help with the clouds in my head and the maze it brings with it, where my thoughts would get lost.

Here is a song text from Sonic Youth to expose what my psychiatrist thinks, and I might think the same, but in the clouds and terror, everything that's going on is going on.

Sonic Youth Schizophrenia

I went away to see an old friend of mine
His sister came over she was out of her mind
She said Jesus had a twin who knew nothing about sin
She was laughing like crazy, at the trouble I'm in
Her light eyes were dancing, she is insane
Her brother says she's just a bitch, with a golden chain
She keeps coming closer saying "I can feel it in my bones"
Schizophrenia is taking me home"


A hanging bridge connects the two sides of the monstrous cliff, somewhere in the jungle of concrete and ruins of the long forgotten city of all coming tomorrows. Unborn babies crave to exist, with deformed bodies and my imaginative but crippled uterus. She dreams while her body floats in a modified tank, ready to start another war. As flowers bloom and rainbows converge, my desired baby, from a long lost dream, begins to breakdance. I dig my own grave, for nothing I desire will fulfill me like my flip sided delusions.

When my mind turns bittersweet, I watch hot daddies with their little ones. Maybe I'll learn how to be alive and regret the pain. Flowers of evil and sweet pink clouds bloom in my garden of desire. I daydream about unnatural cravings driven by my synthetic influence of hormone supplements while breastfeeding one of my bitch boys.

I'm feeling a wave of déjà vu. 

In my dreams, you were my sweet, precious one, and when I wake up, I even wonder if you'll ever be in my life. As I jump on a trampoline and watch all my past and future selves walk in a puzzle, trying to decipher the ultimate knowledge of what might be. She's waking up; the machines are pumping liquids, sucking from the sink, rushing through the damaged pipes, dripping to a climax of watery sounds, the water is slowly being sucked up. It leaves its synthetic womb, impregnated by its desire. It crawls out of the tank, a forgotten laboratory. Weakened by the almost endless sleep of too many changing constellations.

You are who you are, you will be what they read you to be. A voice from all the heavens, illuminated by grace, no self-deluded grandeur, no falling for blinded gaslighting, just pure and clear love, crying, "No, create yourself; let me guide you through what the long-forgotten people of tomorrow called purgatory, facing all human failures like collapsing organs, facing the karma of long term consumption.

The sun blinds her as she leaves the underground bunker and lab, unable to figure out where she is, alone, the sandy wind scratching her face, dusty, forgotten, lost artifacts of random crap. She's wandering in a desert of nothing but concrete and the most random things imaginable. The surface is hot, thirsty, and on the verge of collapsing from creeping heat stroke.

Baby Fever at the peak of the delirious state, changing perspectives, almost collapsing, but always forcing herself to stay in control, like in some GHB near overdose state, wanting to find salvation, scratching and scratching her skin with her artificial biogenetic bimbofied crawls, like an animal in a blood rush.

She faints and hits her head on the surface; her skull is cracked open, bleeding, her brain damaged. In the last moments of her conscious awareness of what is happening to her, she begins to see the bright light that attracts her, and she shifts into an out-of-body experience. She leaves her body and continues walking; no physical force can stop her; she's truly the chosen one. She pauses for a moment to observe her physical empty remnants of the physical world.

The heat grills her like a steak, her wobbly brain slowly cooking, liquid evaporating. She's at the door of Nirvana, all gods are the one god you want them to be, there's no dogma, no division, it just feels like heaven. A ringing sound becomes a composed masterpiece, organs play every string instrument, resonating. A staged masterpiece becomes a theatrical, scripted enigma. A soft, drawn sound becomes louder and louder, distorted.

This book, this object, has no ending and no beginning. It doesn't follow the construct of time, just as my perception of time. Also, there is no time; we made that up to measure our work, energy, productivity, slavery, or whatever we want to call it. 

The world stands still, its dead body; the bright sky of the two-star planetary system turns dark and gray, rain falls on the dead landscape, cooling the earth, washing away the grief and loss, and the moment of peace. A small humanoid dog-hybrid is born, calm and prepared, standing on all fours, with big, wide open eyes, analyzing the newly welcomed world. A new era of the long dead dream, reborn, reshaped, open to write itself, as nature always has and always will, no matter how much we alter its natural coding.