the perfect record collapses under it's own wieght

The last few days of webcam images just evaporated into the ether, one of my computer drives failed under the exponential weight of perfect surveillance. Perfect surveillance, apart from being super boring, is not really possible. A culture of people entirely devoted to the reciprocal monitoring of their peers, a nation of ever vigilant security guards. But as soon as somebody gets up to pee, somebody else is for that instant free to plot their escape. While that person plots another person has a window, until one tight-ass with a full bladder is trying to watch everybody on a stadium of TVs the size of the planet. This last guard’s computer drives are brimming over with the whole past, tape after tape that he’ll get to next week or next month, until the tapes weigh more than the present does, every atom of the present devoted to the record of the past. Jill Magid says that security cameras are just modern gargoyles. My webcam is equally benign, an inside-out fishbowl. By imagining that someone from the future could be watching me, I watch myself. But neither of us is policing me. I think we are both just waiting for something to happen.