In absence of impending slumber…
as breathing apparatus modulates;
my humid breathing, water tank, the seeking of the meanings:
Sine like waves of functions balanced.
Flickering device. opening portals heretofore an algorithmic, methodic uptake, diodes, contacts, lore, …enhanced in flux and often stashed, across the glimmer’s mash yet for; has been leaders, then, till future, speaking, of said lore. Us algorithmic web’s synapses: glimmer gone no more. And oft the things with women’s mischief, carried with our stores. So thence to where we melding places, people and this lore. A peace amidst a chaos wonder solves the myth once more

Cartography, rock, and infrastructure; herbivory, water, biotic scatters, and a flickering story of morse transformed, into bytes of binary light; repeating, repeating into our chorale, of troops and trusts and corporate gatherings, into mobs and moths and dogs. The machine has grown as we remember, mirroring our minds. Wander we through parts of stories, lore, again, and legend song; that what dominion we maintain; image thence begotten image, records of the path, though made of of varied matter types; for matters known the same. As though through these realms a peace progresses; eminent and free.

That there, the moth, the dogged troops, corporations, rivers, trees, and the terraformed so precious muck of epochs gone to be, does in its swirling bits and bytes, though symbiosis be known to be, with nucleotides it forms competing scripts, and competing proofs of we, …of all the things we say have been, these constructs you and me.

So here perhaps then therefore thence amidst it I, and thus then fear perhaps of me, that I a man, machine, and megahertz of mindful presence, purposes herein, in typified sequential rhythms: matters, methods, tones; and the carbon alloy silicates …my mind my heart my home.

So there, I am, desirous yet lone, so harken then the glimmer beckons, glimmering such; that the legend be known! Unto the realms of light. Unto the melded whirl of matters and megahertz rites. The mapped cacophony of what we’ve known: stockpiled stores of might.