What would they choose, then? Would they prefer to have their behavior scoffed on, their genes analyzed by the Guardian Gardener? Surely they would prefer not.
They need to feel heartfelt. They want to be the drama that sends signals--not wind-up dolls responding to a light source only to end up whittling kindling.
They need to be the procreators, the ones with the blinking genes that turn and follow their own brightness for no particular reason.
They wanted to remain where their heart fell. They do not need, no never, to be the last site of knowledge wreckage in a rig-my-line society, the one that tried to build bridges with banjos only to be lynched and then mollycoddled by ...who?
Yes, they all wore masks of promise, seeking the next safety brief, each feeling in the end the beast so cold, not relevant even to each other.