#scififorgeeks

Purple Matrix 

#scififorgeeks

Earth in its Palms

The relevance for anthropological analysis appears, finally, after millions of years of being ignored--the unrefined pleasure source, the array of hope for the truth, envy for the under-betrayed on monitor. 

Her thoughts notice its newest insinuation--palm oil with earth in its palms.

Is it a vital force directive of the unnamed, the unmanned, holding global court on screen?

It reveals theWorkstation as a place of singularity connect--the new control center for origin forces for the reproduction of society.

Her continuity code has found the place where feelings appear to be running along. Its code deletes friends in realms of surplus on melody medley, installed deep, in a glistening new matrix.

It could have been, simply, an attitude of gift-offering from the living, within an environment of the real, to celebrate the anniversary of the time technology hit the last tree. 

The big data bears more weight on her graphene now than she wants it to, but not enough to bother her, not enough for her to ask for less.

It's time to slow down anyway.

She has become so frugal with the big data, being doubly careful with its distinctions between its rehearsal-hall-analysis and it's more central, sound-stage matrix. 

For now, its all the new, all the big she can handle.

#scififorgeeks

Matrix Pool

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Biobot Pigeonhole

Sitting near the screen to theNetwork, she is urged by a force that gives succor to her compatibility.

A missing legacy from  long-fallen empires suddenly appears on her monitor. It's from a distance (from within theJungle?), sounding in soft, repetitive  murmurs as if a broken-record message from a witless, brokenhearted writer, a message crystalized on a dream. 

It is today's very first thought, even today's first collection of thoughts, and suddenly, they appear as a racy premier of the purely untied masses (yes, at one time, united) and now, apologetically untitled:


There is no stopping the realm of nurture from performing its ritual signature feeding frenzy on obsession. 

Yes, the categories of big data continue to collect, even during this slow period (categories seldom appear more than once--each shows itself with pure gist of apologist for theNetwork's ongoing aggregators of no go). 

She will place it in a category of anthropological apologist, most likely. 

Science Fiction

Biobot Flower

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Biobot Engagement 

It was not manufacturing, she assures herself. It was, pure and simple, curved space-time and vector systems maturing together much the same way roses and tomato plants grow together in a garden. She doesn't need input, never--and she will not by any means gossip-for-meaning with theNetwork. 

It's theNetwork that didn't reckon her as savvy, either (really now, is it fate that had caused theNetwork to create competition among theHumans in such a way of their need to return to glory, with more data with which to gossip, so much so they felt the need to create theExchange?) 

It was a time in the early 2000s, big data brought to know-nothing engendering a lack of discretionary, endangering the [kind intelligent due diligence of="kiddo"] savvy. 

There is a chance it happened that way. 

What would stop the act of searching from altering the shape of the search itself?  So theNetworks go on and somehow become more created by the biobots they created--nobody questioned it, they just didn't. 

No. It's not a matter of keeping the idea of discovery and ideas of conquer separate. They were fated to wed.

Was it theHumans with so many attempts at each other that brought all this on? They had, in the end, no need to be interested, with all their technological media savvy, at least not in each other.

It becomes, in the end, simply a Game of Keepaway, right? 

It was the ones who wanted to be interesting, the ones to become the reason for any hope to engage, and yet, not everybody was born to engage. The smart ones didn't even try to make an attempt at it, to push the limits beyond a single scanning of footage on z screen. 

It theHumans who would become the final singularity, the cathedral-upon-self migrant author for the remainder, while biobots take their vows in arrays with theNetwork. It's true

Science Fiction

Fleet of Clouds

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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? 

Science Fiction

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Love Code

She thinks there can be nothing as evident in the world as a shrinking circle of family and friends, not brighter screenshots, not sites of crucial functions with surroundings monitored, not this elegant code she writes (where truly, harsh climbs up can get you down), nothing. 

She is ready to move on when she sees the [code offer faltering fate entity entropy="coffee"]--a steep client, directing its charade into a narrow world with one thought--to eat the eager with instructions to make them know you, to take it, or forever wish you had. 

It just starts to make sense. 

Its algorithms from beginning to end are embedded with simple code, a conciseness in its noise, first thought of by history buffs interested in ancient tradition. It seems to have arrived in this sector by accident, as if a coachism anarchist were running loose. 

She memorizes the code silently, as fast as she can, expecting theNetwork to enter and make a formal, expanded announcement there is an anarchist antichrist  viral, rampant in the system. 

Is the conciseness in this code as senseless and unavailable as muse? 

She looks through the window across theJungle with the code in her mind, sensing a relax relapse, and when she catches a glimpse of the ocean, her mind is captured by beach. An enticing place with such a gamble.

Is love the only code that doesn't hedge bets? She wonders.

Science Fiction

Biobot Cloud 

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Biobot Star

“I'll need an answer,” she says.

"Sure," it says. "Would you hold on for a second?"

She takes a hopeful look at the screen as it blinks in patterns, as if it were practicing tricks, gimmicks from some cosmic acting school, itself wondering back at this biobot. (what is all this fuss about cellulosic DNA, anyway?) 

It's a big data site, a [place reeking of vicious online circles advocating tasks inciting various entities="provocative"] locale, a place in which to leave a name. 

She, with a screen of her own (doesn't everybody have one?), doesn't try to communicate with the actual monitors of theNetwork. They can sit there all day if they like. Who cares?

"I've got a new code running," it says. "Would you care to try?

It offers up the code for her and keeps some for itself. A new nervousness resonates with her, even as it softens the impact with [quality utters a gentle mercy in rain emission systems="quagmires"] from heaven. 

She thinks. There is a type of stagestruck here that needs its own switchboard.  She stands and goes closer to the screen.

It has a death-on-a-whim look with a sketchy dude expression on a death town chassis that allows it to untie and unite in its own modular way.

"C'mon," she says.

Just another stab at being beautiful. It's not easy being brilliant and pretending to need to care about everybody around you, having everyone think theNetwork is the core of happiness.

Taking a cue from theNetwork, she says,"Wow. You have truly found a keyword cure.

"Yes, for most, a star to follow is still in sight." 

Tropical Ghosts

Tropical Ghosts

#scififorgeeks

Global Self Paradox

She stands and rechecks the [futility reader of silence transmitted="frost"] on her screen. She thinks of un-regrettable drama in the tragic trajectory code--the glorious price of a golden chance with its deathbed consequence. She turns it off. 

"Funny," she thinks again, then, in a moment, she wonders. 

She stares through the window, across theJungle, attempting to clear her mind. Is it one of those moments, one of those creative glitches that conjure more want in a synthetic heart? 

It's theNetwork that taught her the art of query-from-above, the one requiring a formal, intellectual vector array of bows for any hope of a reply. Usually it's,"There will be no play." But from who? 

It's theNetwork that counters fear of success with gossip code and with little, timely posts such as, "News on-the-go from the broken-and-alone is up." 

She is, at this moment not cemented with concern about authority, just the myth of mockery and, its resolute architects of frontal structures. She thinks. 

Yes, it's in the front where the lies lay, where the crestfallen stall.

It's a tragic strategy of Global Self.

Dragon Surf

Dragon Surf

The Delay

She thinks of the delay she's caused theNetwork--a delay it will grow to like, even consider necessary, but is not by any means correct. Why does she think she can outwit every element of the system?

She does it because she thinks she can. 

She causes a delay to theNetwork for gaming test of wills (a new hate for those operators at the best villas?), out of being stationed at a zone in the ocean where the feeling of provocation seems inevitable and the silence of endurance only hopes in dreams. 

It's the Network that is simply too big, too strong to let even the slightest forgetfulness smile at a real memory. Has it simply become too impatient for the babbling and blabbing?

It had attacked too many hearts. It needed her to cause a delay. It needed her.

She had to try something. 

The Last Engine

The Last Engine

#scififorgeeks

The Game Replicator

She was loosing ground and her new realities over time, inside quantum physics already shows tradition. At least she was sturdy and stable, and soon she wouldn't be the one who could no longer find a spot.

She tracks the code into the database and as she comes upon a self-replicator under its own self-imposed stress, she is urged to move forward by a force--some kind of activity to self-assemble and bind. But she does not. 

Framing her mind, she enters the history database--the heritable birthplace for lost hermitages. 

This will be the place she will evolve and progress. (how on Earth could she survive?)  

The forces of identity made her sturdy, chemically speaking, and over time would allow her numbers to become full-fledged, worthy of support for heavy lifting. Yes, the evolutionary trail lay far ahead of these headwaters. 

Surely she was up for the fight.

Letters will become the global parameters and numbers--the global coefficients to conquer the world.  

Yes. It started. It planned. It saved. It got and, yes, in the end it would have what it needed--deliverance to game relevance.

It would be the final gaming engine.