Stuff, with the exception of luxury goods and necessities to sustain physical existence (food, etc) just more or less doesn't exist. You carry your library around with you. Your personal toiletries are dispensed wherever you happen to need them. You don't buy soap; you buy a license on soap.
I just tripped over this when I was about to send my protags back to their cabins to collect their luggage, and I realized... why would they have luggage?
It's amazing how unanchored this can make me feel as a writer when I think about it hard enough. And how insecure I can make myself trying to write people with, essentially, no physical anchors other than their bodies. You want flux? Baby, I will give you flux. It's a bit creepy, like leaving home and realizing you've forgotten your wallet, even if you're not going anywhere where you will need it.
We are so chained to stuff.
New Words: 1048
Total Words: 2970
Reason for stopping: 1,000 words, and other commitments
Mammalian Assistance: Marlowe on the mousepad. Imagine that.
Stimulants: lime passion tea
Exercise: Just about to go do my yoga, since I won't get a walk today.
Mail: A Locus. Which doesn't really count, but hey, it's something with my name on it.
Tyop du jour: Two greed lights blinking beside the archway
Darling du jour: "Behold," Vincent said, teasing. "New Amazonia."
Kusanagi-Jones took a sip of his drink. "Stupid name for a planet," he said, and didn't mind when Vincent didn't answer.
Books in progress: Ed Sanders, Tales of Beatnik Glory; Neal Stephenson, Quicksilver
Interesting research fact of the day: The entire catalogue of Vincent van Gogh's drawings is online.
Other writing-related work: none