Passwords are places. Logolocation had already been implemented, albeit clumsily, by trademarked phrases, mottoes, and memes; our extension served to coordinate landmarks across minds, making tangible the visions and structures previously only imagined.
Now the corporations build castles in the breaths between the words of their adcantations. Haunting jingles follow mention of their Products and Services; sometimes many at once, competing businesses flooding the soundscape with xylophones and whistles and the deep voices of salesmen. Naming summons them; to remain pure of advertisements, refer to corporations only via a database of abstruse metaphors.
My soma-mind traverses geospace, while my hylic-mind traverses logospace; my internal theater is split down the middle, dedicated half to the physical and half to the lexical-virtual, the landscapes of which hurtle past as I speak and listen and read, teleported by subvocalizations to my favorite realms. We all have the mien of schizophrenics, now, muttering our secret phrases to manifest a hidden world.
I built a home deep in sentence-space, where few are likely to ever visit. My coordinate phrase is "the element whose atomic number is three thousand". My house is a linkage of steel spheres, assembled after the fashion of a molecular model, each node enclosing a cultivation of moss or a water source. A retreat to ponds, fountains, and an abundance of green down, undisturbed except for the occasional passage of bots.
Bots crawl through logospace, indexing structures, locating the secret mansions and the cenobiums which develop around excerpts of obscure prayers. They apply brute force, exploring every combination of words, mapping human colonization of language. Those desiring true isolation seek to foil the bots by anchoring their homes to neologisms, or to unpronounceable passcodes dense in consonants, punctuation, and numbers, or by mixing languages, interspersing their thoughts with ideograms.
Common phrases are chaotic zones of co-creation; "Hello, how are you," is a beautiful shipwreck, a jumble of artifacts and structures from thousands of contributors. Puns are Schelling points for thematic decoration; "Hello, how are mew," is a garden of cat figurines, Egyptian and porcelain statues.
Of great menace to logospace are the corporate bots, who seek not only to index, but to conquer. Franchise palaces, no longer content to sit in their righteous namespace, spawn tiny copies in proximal language. Metaphors are no longer sure defense against persuasion, for the spores of these entities reach far and wide, capturing greater and greater swathes of our lexiscapes, forcing our communication to increasing heights of abstraction as we struggle to express ourselves, untainted by capital.1