From Evernote:

Medallion

You search and you are presented with an intricate medallion on your screen. Any screen, including in an auto or on a stovetop. 

The figure presents a complex story before the network even begins answering your question. You can tell by the design just which individual or organization is sponsoring the search. The order of the medallions on your screen has been settled in advance by prior responses and exit polls; you may be sure your leading network is currently the most efficient and  best online for your topic, and that the others follow in merit sequence.

You can, if the organization is new or you've forgotten, touch the medallion, which essentially is a coat of arms. The names and identies might be presented. Another part of the figure brings up your own history of searches through that source. Also presented is a report of alll previous research on the topic, and also a review of sources,  bracketed by accountability.

There are no paid ads in the search results, as was the case in the early 21st century. All the search teams are their own individual networks, and they are paid by how many eyes they can attract, the classic metric. To do that, they have instituted news, analysis, and entertainment with every result. You might see a perky presenter or bubbly broadcaster detail results of your research project, or watch a comedy act based loosely on its topic.

Rivalry is part of the dynamic. We see here a slogan applied to the list and associated ratings of all the diners down I 35 south of Waco: BASIC TOOLS FOR SIMPLE FOOLS. This came about because a competing network tried to boost ratings by short and punchy descriptions, which were of course ridicluled by competitors by referencing the logo of the offender.

It's radically different than the early onset broadcast and later online experience. There is lots more information provided to distract you from the obvious fact that you really won't learn much throughout the whole enterprise. 

Cloud

A ginger lady bent towards destruction. Flames all about yet so diffuse as to be immediately untrheatening. I am pat of the retinue. Swirls and portent; a chaos to be offset by deliberative predictable patterns of the sort which led to the present crisis in the first place. Behind in a following vehicle is Gilbert Roland, who sees he has been passed by Johnny Dark thus is in seecond place forever. He gives that resigned working class headshake, the jaw sharp to the left, and shifts to road gear. He doesn't realized he has been saved by missing the lead, for he will see the bridge out by his opponent's headlong fall into the gulch. Random association and desultory rambling lead me into an amphitheatre. It is a plaza de toros, and the animals wander in from the pasture and back out again at their leisure. A raucous crowd gathers all around the bowl. A strange character enters with a monster and colorful sombrero - which is immediately yanked from his head and begins a long leisurely frisbee route around the plaza seats. Much raoucous yelling and whistles. The sombrero goes once around, then twice, until it is somewhat the worse for wear. It reaches near its owner, then is placed on his noggin. The brim is almost entirely separated from the crown, between the which its owner looks all around in a comical and sorrowful countenance. The crowd whoops. The fire, however, gathers smoke up to the very clouds. We all scream and laugh, and the front moves ever closer.

Finding Edith

I'll just stop here for a latte, I say. Won't take a minute. I'll meet you over on East Side. 

It's one of those confusing joints where nobody goes for the first time. Sandwiches and soup to students and profs, but they must pour coffee too.

Very complex labyrinth of aisles and ferns and high counters, and no more signs that you find in private homes. 

I just smile and walk and now I'm near the kitchen. Coffee?, I ask. 

Edith will be with you. Oh, she's away?
Okay, step this way. 

Now I'm out in a leaf-shaded parking lot. I open my own door and we sit down, me because I believe this must be how it's done and the others I don't know why. Maybe like me they aren't really sure about procedure. 

We go then we stop in a residential neighborhood. This must be where Edith lives. We wait. One steps out, goes around the corner. Returns; sits in my ride again. Another exits and goes another way, and then another. Doors are opening and closing like in a cab, only we aren't moving. 

I expect always that everyone is more attuned to the general environment than I am, only I don't want them to know that. 

After too long a time, I look around. I am alone. 

Maybe they just didn't have the heart to tell me there is no coffee. 

It's too late to meet the others at East End. I consider. I could just leave my auto and walk to the house. (It isn't my primary residence but I'm staying there.) it's a long walk but I can do it. Just stride off down the street. 

But ... why?  Besides, I don't have a key to the house. 

Through the rest of a long afternoon, no better idea presents itself. 

Tim Bowden is twiddling his thumbs on his  iPhone 4S!

Concierge

We want her out. We have cause. We try and enlist the other residents. She's only a temp. Let's have her booted. 

The other residents, they are noncommittal, unresponsive. We'll go it alone then. 

The police. We tell them what she's done. Of a civil nature, one says. We want her removed. A cop defers to another. He's the expert on concierges. 

"I haven't heard of one removed for that cause," he says. "Not in thirty two years."

"When you have termites, who pays?" asks the first cop. 

"I don't know; she does, and we pay it through rent."

Puzzling. Can't boost her out due to malfeasance but maybe mishandling of funds. 

Cops leave. 

"It's your business too!" shouts my Lady at furtive shadows at the end of the courtyard. Silence. 

Tim Bowden is twiddling his thumbs on his  iPhone 4S!