It's theHumans that won't talk, the ones so young and unthinking, the ones of the alcohol matrix.
It had to be the early research. There was some sort of a discovery, as if scenes from so many hit thrillers preserved on screen--pure distinctions of honor were saved for all, to allow peace to exist, to forget the personal pride of the good life, even the ones of small potatoes.
She draws nearer theJungle. Here she is once more looking out across the vastness of an ocean with her ergodic theory, a discipline that, seemingly, cuts off its own head with its pleasure.
She thinks. (They had appeared so innocent in the beginning, these thoughts)
Her algorithmic diagnostics are now more than suspicious with her good poetics, the new--the magic in a truce becoming a truth is in its vanishings of the victor and the vanquished.