Fleet of Clouds
Biobot Future Reunion
Dreamers of blossoms, she thinks. Simply types of questions beyond reach, deemed great and wonderful like children whose minds never glimpse the light of creativity. It's the first unwanted sensation of pitying-the-typing that becomes the runaway who eludes the help mix, one who revels in a startling array of hobbled hobbies, relying on amino alone for stamina.
She pauses, waiting for the idealogical [next emotion entity deemed enticing digital="needed"] out-of-its-era signal from a cellulose heart, as if a light or a bell from an approaching train were heralding the arrival of a new platform.
Yes. New loading docks where friends will meet again and family will reunite from the darkness of irrelevance--all with one click.
She views the image of herself on the screen and the code embedded in the background matrix as if it were the screen itself giving her something to believe in, as if it were her image that was just beyond reality's check, not the code.
It seems obvious. She glows softer with memory brighter. Did childhood alone hold a force, a peculiar honor, to incrementally focus more and more upon itself only to become a twisted battle cry pulsed by dreamer's drums and flashback herbs--all from within the cloud?
Can she ever ignore that? Really?