Sunday, July 29, 2012

Science Fiction


The Memoirs 

The pulse indicates the next best thing in the making, unaware of the others cleaning sites, marking new targets, brushing away theJungle as if in the middle of a golf shot. 

It moves to alter its intensity. It's as if it were alive. 

It is beyond all perimeter scanner entities, coming from a place unable to be determined by location. 

It is aware, seemingly, of all the other times it moved, as if it were one a corpse, now animated. 

Its signal is found beyond the rows created by theHumans, the ones in line to take a turn, out of reach of the changes that are to come, changes unable to touch any of their memoirs. 

She feels in theJungle a rise of her next poetic. She thinks. A quiet, playful wit is a far cry from a half. Is it so difficult to predict the new favorites for gold and money

No. Even the moody ones, sooner or later, will have to say yes to her. She knows it. It's the beauty of it.

No comments:

Post a Comment