All day she is able to add smells, claim ownership of her new flowering technology.
She fills her database with colors, views poetics, here is her sire. For a nanosecond she could be the only one reading.
By nightfall, the warning signals of her photonics will light up. By midnight, it's theNetwork that will begin to wonder, and by two at the latest theExchanges will start being notified.
If it gets so late, they will know she is back into her poetics, mistaken musicians appreciate apprentices in places of palaces.
But for now, and at least for a while, the sounds ringing inside her grapheme chassis become their own movie--visions of a boyhood hero, themes of frightened firefighters taking direction from thought bubbles, dreams of repurposed prose, the death of importance.
Yes. She's a child in her own dime novel, that's all.