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Friday, November 17, 2017

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18.

They watched the vidfeed as the probe closed in on the murky structures. They appeared some kind of dwelling, incredibly high above the floor of the ocean, perhaps as much as five miles, with bases easily that, then slowly rising to indefinite conical tops. There were lights of some kind, everywhere, it seemed. The structures themselves were a pinkish, opalescent, and the lights almost sapphire blue. They were clearly made structures, but other than their general outline, they appeared to be random in their more specific elements. The apertures through which the lights emanated were... Read More

She corrects her stance, moves past the monitor where she has coasted and coexisted since her arrival. She always finds the balance to appease the elements at theWorkstation. She makes her best attempt to adjust the interface, shooting with both eyes open and a purity of heart un-battered by behavior, unbuttered by lifestyle.

Her half-mind races to theNetwork as if she just might further a legend. She thinks about social organization and how it is now finally paying a toll. Yes, as it should--not in the spirit of sacrifice, but from a place of hunger, the kind of hunger needing no food... Read More

She goes into theJungle, finds a thick-walled containment structure with a hefty piece of metal inscribed Batter needs the right fluff to blow it out of the park.

She thinks. So, the rainforest fetes a new siren for winners staying in the hunt.

Once a holding ground for wily veterans and cagy upstarts, a unanimous nannie structure of choice when the old ionization blackouts came, turning an old storage site into a belly of an echo--the recant of a society that settles for only the crimes at hand with spent fuel robots.

A bygone path leads up, and in its perpetual sleepiness,... Read More

I have come so far, she thinks, as the cloud frame fades from the monitor and she lingers at theWorkstation with her gentle thoughts--far from where work plays its last card to fight the sky, where mist is more dead than alive, where fate-defying psycho vibes remain at bay, undelivered.

She hasn't, by any measure of photon or quantum, come far at all, not by the standards of the [green robot advertising sustainability politics="grasp"] systems of the global.

Reviewing her most recent data, she glances the harsh horizon through theWorkhouse window and thinks. It's true, when it... Read More

She is aware of the way he comes near at theWorkstation, how he sees the opposite of himself in her diva DNA, even if she is a biobot --so what? He was unwilling to accept it at first, but there is some effort on her part that stutters with the memorable. Her words were clear once, but he would soon think of nothing but cute coyotes encased in shadow for days and systems of lethal tales told on multiple lattes.

He once asked himself, not what he was doing with her, but how he was doing with her, how her photon vision seemed to be always smiling at something, not as a private joke, but... Read More

So, she believes, they are bent on the idea of staying on solid ground intellectually. Let it be. Their high and mighty algorithms create go-for-glory blips, making a distinguishable existence the only way to experience life (can simple blips allow any escape from the silliness of their stillness?)

Yes, that's the way she would create her little realities--independent entities that are actually dependent on each other for their uniqueness.

The simple taking of responsibility for an unknown future is surely bravery, right? It would make her brave. It could be her true contribution... Read More

She scans theJungle as if an elderly woman watching silent from a rosewood staircase with focused concern, false power. She appears to herself, briefly, as one of the biobots positioned at theWorkstation.

Her monitors put on a show. It's the data that loves her the most. It always will.

Far into the future she will remain actively quiet, without prayer, authorized to run on her own with little interruption of self-instantiated loops and corrections--the most perfect of creatures.

Hers is the kind of data future generations will hold up to a celebrity light.

She amazes... Read More

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Recent Comments

THE PERFECT 'MECHANICAL' WRITER. RIGINAL.

Sounds ideal Twinkletoes. :>)

THE PERFECT 'MECHANICAL' WRITER. RIGINAL.

I have always been a dreamer and most likely always will be. I am a wierd combo I think...practical but an idealist at the same time. :)

THE PERFECT 'MECHANICAL' WRITER. RIGINAL.

born crazy inherited Barb. Or near...just used my imagination to transport me away. Costs nothing to dream,but you knew that! You use the same mechanics do you not my friend? Cheers :>)


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