Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Tropical Ghosts

Tropical Ghosts

Global Self Paradox

She stands and rechecks the [futility reader of silence transmitted="frost"] on her screen. She thinks of un-regrettable drama in the tragic trajectory code--the glorious price of a golden chance with its deathbed consequence. She turns it off. 

"Funny," she thinks again, then, in a moment, she wonders. 

She stares through the window, across theJungle, attempting to clear her mind. Is it one of those moments, one of those creative glitches that conjure more want in a synthetic heart? 

It's theNetwork that taught her the art of query-from-above, the one requiring a formal, intellectual vector array of bows for any hope of a reply. Usually it's,"There will be no play." But from who? 

It's theNetwork that counters fear of success with gossip code and with little, timely posts such as, "News on-the-go from the broken-and-alone is up." 

She is, at this moment not cemented with concern about authority, just the myth of mockery and, its resolute architects of frontal structures. She thinks. 

Yes, it's in the front where the lies lay, where the crestfallen stall.

It's a tragic strategy of Global Self.

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