It should have been an ongoing no go, a seafaring from afar, lasers adrift with one passive eye at the watch, the other barely containing her furions, the most furious of ions.
Her impersonal inferred, infrared photon network continues to shine a light on known knowledge in breathtaking breakthroughs. She grows a leaner, cleaner hunger for far places, the ones that remain as nameless bounty, uncharted beauty.
She is surprised by her laser, to a certain point, as she comes upon an image of memory.
Is it an invention? An old war field? An arrangement of a bout between …what? Did an emotion singularity make all motion stop in an open duel between theJungle and theHumans at a farewell place, one where outrage becomes outage of self?
It's a projection of a life's windup. She thinks.
The thrill of a particular deed has long past served the dropping of the handkerchief. There would be no hope of a hoisting of anchors for a departure, not now. (There could have been no escape from whatever the day had brought, even with their unmatched weapons of choice)
They came in a distant second, it seems, with [digital online ultraviolet birthing technology="doubt"], passing monster slumbers of treeless roots, and then, believing in the ghosts of a damned amnesty.
The stinky, the aging, must have deemed this an advanced position, and now, a biobot advances, alone, with her own brand of beauty, herbal underbelly. She wonders. Is it true? Can endless wipeouts ever give birth to new story? Can all-is-well idiots on diets think the reader a quiet idiot as well? Really?
It could have been a final revenge of extremes--quill pen lasers sent out to decorate the last penguin.
It's theJungle, once again, camouflaging the lurking in the anonymous.
Was it theJungle's assignment of quotas, a floundering dependence upon ringing endorsements and clanging swords in revolution, all to create a mammoth monkey? Could the resonant words of evolution be to blame, with its own story as blood offering?
It was theHumans who became the ones half-hearted at being well-spoken wheels and, in the end, gained only the appearance of being a shiny new spoke.
Yes, natural beauty claims to hate violence, and yet, may bring on its biggest binge--a gift for the final two who love self the most. Did unrequited hate for the fallen in the bespectacled young speed the spectacle, breed impatience?.
She suddenly senses a new tinge of consciousness--what is this? It floats moored on shy cushions, it seems, where it sleeps adrift, as if to rest rage for a final greedy stab at revenge.
She thinks. They must have lived out their bravery in grassy helmets, earthy swords, salty ends.
Yes, the call to defend was personal.