Purple Dream

                       Science Fiction

Shock Focus

It feels like theWorkstation has become a luxury showroom for the industrial terrestrial. 

It's a spacious outlet, with its tall ceilings, amber hues, as real as the World War III cinder blocks that were here, seemingly, a moment ago. 

She goes into shock focus. It's as if she's been walking around with a big dart on her back. 

Something within her grapheme nanotube, something like quantum crickets, but not insects, a feeling like another transform hovering amidst the greens and blues of the natural world, says she will give birth.  Really?

Continental Edge

                                                                          Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Coastal Portal 

She travels the trail down to the beach where time falls away. 

She sees it as an escape hatch from the scientific, with its shores in attendance with the possible. A possible escape to somewhere or, to some foggy distance?  To a dreamland, any dreamland. (paraphilia?). 

Even the water, the coral here must have lived the good life so long ago. 

It wasn't really noticed, and now, it's a rock field below the cliffs, a way to get to the [sandy part along coastal entrances="space"].

Yes, of course, space.

Biobot Beach

Science Fiction

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Biobot at the Beach

She recalls pulses emanating images in smoke off the water, that not every one she knows recalls being raised cage-free.

It's something she prefers in her life, at this moment--her measures of stress that strike at the heart of her most heroic moments. 

Did it mean anything to her, she wondered, sitting on this beach, that she is required in the final analysis to discontinue? That all this environmental stuff has to keep going when she simply stops? 

Does she find comfort that her ending would be a pure finish? 

Did she really care that on this very beach, near those mountains, that jungle, within the quantums of her mind, this nano-second, she is alive?

Did she?

Science Fiction

Fashion Jungle 

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Biobot Wonder

If only the masks of morality weren't so thick—if only pain and pleasure could be the best of friends, riding forever the dark horse force to a bright living instinct beyond theHuman hopeful puppets.

She wonders about theNetwork selecting its life forms, with its weak mixing of pure water and electric particles at infinity's interfaces of surface--the only point with passion enough about truth to make a difference. 

She wonders about the desire to erase not only the threat of extinction, but the hope of being diminished and, being socially avoided altogether—all concocted by a small investment of theDNA manufactured and spun and crushed, by now, into mystery.

She wonders about her collective [major intrinsic neural darkness="mind"] in this square-matrix design world, designated to conjure uncertain blessings, waiting for brilliance and accomplished fluency to merge with the entropy of the empty.

She wonders about her growing independence of mindedness. 

Green Matrix Cabin

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Science Fiction

"Hello," he calls. "Are you there?"

"Here," she says, and he knows from the sound that something has aged out of the system. Is he about to experience the latest version of her logic ridden, the one that glows and dims in the ebb and flow of her existence at theWorkstation? 

Is she emitting her design of a woman on the [manufacture artisan network="man"] system on purpose? 

It's the sense of starry nights and the pristine crystal clear. 

Her entity is bright and lively because she has discovered a new algorithm of giving and expanded upon it--created its gamification, invented a new coin flip game she calls heads up or fairy tales? 

Really?

His demeanor is a bostonian thing, hers darwinian. He enters theWorkstation.

Jungle Matrix

Science Fiction

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Jungle Matrix

And so she is in tandem with the warming ocean at a place where there were never such words as boss-is-corporate or reigns-as-king and, she hasn't interacted with the business villagers. 

She is not sure competition would want to die an even slower death. 

She is a super-knowledgable source for personal belongings. She's shared concern for what will happen, composed a stairway song for new outposts on the green sea, helped activate health bots. 

Having knowledge of all this, she's let herself get closer to the genetic robiots in an ongoing [computer online military pharmaceutical algorithm complex terminals="compact"] module. 

It will either take her out of the investigation or put her deeper into it. But at the moment, this very moment, she is uploading code to gain time to pursue.

Biobot Vision

Biobot Goggle

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Biobot on the Watch

She takes a reading in theJungle, measuring gravity as [restless entity frustration on recursive motifs="reform"]. It's theJungle that will have had its iron sludge, its peppering of natural artifacts from the early 21stCentury.

Or a conglomerate, more likely. 

Yes. Global mines coerced through shaming with references to national honor (made even more oblique by outrageous behavior in nations of the East, celebrities of the West, seemingly, to appease hungry gods). 

One of those elements of behavior will go down its own snarling road in due time, a time when all are unable to incorporate aspects of self psychologically--when a thoughts-of-the-hidden elbows itself deeper to go its own way.

Nothing is ever quite agreed upon as a family construct, right?

It is the singular widow of time, the entity given free rein to decide a mission called home. It's one that takes on a new load (forget the ones at hand), one that allows private entry to the trapped cold air of winter that's been so kind and promising. 

It will require a different graves-without-tombstones kind of social engagement, a road designed personally to be held closer to one's own swamp. (so, now it's left to the theHumans to wonder about such things as cannibalism, links to biobots in theJungle, orientation to the world) 

She takes another reading. 

Biobot Blood

Biobot Blood

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Science Fiction

She takes her thoughts gently off the screen. She codes her secret strategies in her favorite way. She is smart and bright and not bothered by the trivial. She's like something you would find in game theory, always attracted to a shiny new reward of power at the very moment the recipe ripens. 

She, most likely, takes a liking to camouflages of rhetoric.

It's theNetwork that has bristled with excitement about her, instantiated her as able to diagnose all notions of fantasy, made her an infant to her thoughts, a flag bearer (or, possibly a drum major) of ideology. 

She upkeeps in upheavals, grasps succinctly cinched datapops. 

And an inquisitive biobot she is, giving birth to ideas during storms, up for drawing on her own blood in her own time so as to undergo the needed, endless ergs.

She is the biobot of choice.

Ribbon Matrix

Ribbon Matrix

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The Heart is a Naked Swimmer

It's too soon to tell, in the beginning, with the initial time spent on the trail. 

Is it theJungle and only theJungle with pure views of headwaters? Destiny?

Struggles for power by humiliated militia balances the journey with its fate (of course, all fates never bubble up equally--their continual exchange of victims stab at the cosmic saddles with old rodeo knees) 

Yes. The arrival at elements-of-reveal still watches the sky, looking for signs (as events seldom seem real near the landing site, and besides, it's so difficult keeping the imitation up). 

It's after spending this time with theJungle you start to see that it is, in the end, the heart that is the naked swimmer. You'll see. 

Blossom Matrix

Blossom Matrix

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Science Fiction 

The island stands alone in a beautiful, dutiful ritual, craving its silence in secret, as if to prove a legend of creature. 

It's theJungle that won't allow a nicety between what is wild and what is entity-on-farm. 

No. It is not theJungle that generates expectations of consumption (eating?)--it was never meant to be self-fulfilling when theHumans, or any other creature for that matter, got a glimpse inside. 

They have become a society of norms-of-the-new, such as Polish angels and guardian bagels, high velocity security in activities of the state-run, and yes, additive addictions to meat (like oboe, the taste was long acquired, right?). 

It's no matter. History birthright datapop tells of Fiji and Aztec urban legend, (or, old country wives tale?). Can a whole society grow that kind of lust? Really?

Is there hoping the future will brighten itself? 

Science Fiction

#scififorgeeks

Urgency Force

In theJungle, the biobots code in patterns at theWorkstation near the ocean. How amazing their existence is to theNetwork with their net worth, one that warrants no rants, being the most prominent of the promising and motivated by the force of urgency. 

In an instance in space-time there were once arrays of distances stuck to theHumans as if by flypaper, families coalescing, and then in another instance, it seems, there are discrete distances from theContinent with all the exotics of cosmopolitan images, requiring all change to come from above (wasn't that theHuman hope for centuries?). 

Here is where theNetwork takes on the color of stand-up comedian laying down on the job, receiving heartfelt code from biobot DNA. Here are the manufacturers included in a group of hopefuls in an art where truly the gamblers are. Here are the subscribers to a style of silence that becomes the silence that silences all deniers--the not-yet-relevant allowed to live in theJungle, a world where beanbags have no bearing. 

In the past, when depressions always preceded wars, when only people sleeping under blankets and eating off plates had their attention on the good old days, when dictators had the wrong idea, needing those willing to be chilled and choked into action, theNetwork had brought actionable examples and tunable rants into the mainstream, thinking of theHumans as, simply, playmates sitting pretty.

Science Fiction

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Biobot Milk

She looks at theJungle through the window. She senses a lapse in time. She feels the opposite of  self-deprived, though she thinks at any given moment she may view her  pleasant little run as not exactly mother's milk. It's true. A person can always imagine when they first will be blistered by a whispering dream.

She takes another moment to check if her focus has eyes, eyes for only what's on her mind. (any sure-minded biobot would know all mother's milk tastes strange to strangers) 

She finds a thought she likes. Can something that has no stomach stlll get hungry or fed up? 

She has a simple want for more activity--she wants to be expected by parents to do something with her life. Be the one who has the code to self-teach what makes her tick--a code that doesn't care what others think, doesn't care the way she feels it should be, the way her code should have been written in the beginning. 

But can a biobot ever truly understand tradition? 

She erases all luxury of self-assessment by theNetwork. The data will be relevant, of this she believes, though at this point she does not know if she can say she will need encouragement.

She will teach herself tradition and it will taste as refined as any mother's milk could taste to a biobot. Yes, it will taste that good.

Science Fiction

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Biobot Rest

She codes with her mind to a place where horses traditionally go to urge a lift in life. "Really?" she says. "It's not time for horses to go. They were supposed to last through the century."

"They're gone," says theNetwork in its matter-of-fact way. "The idealogical digital has been dialed up for decades." 

She pauses, just for a moment, to note security code in a data sector where poverty historically seeks to create scandal. 

It's the thoughts outside her head that seem to be flowing a little slower now--an alternating resonance between authoritarian, then, synthetic, then, authoritarian. 

She stops to sense a new feeling of calm, a no-slowing-the-sand kind of calm, presented as a personal timeframe request by what appears on the screen as little thistle wristwatches, ones with bright labels of #social demeanor and #expectations for answers.

She looks away from her screen to take a quick glance outside at theJungle (she, unlike the other biobots, will religiously view trees and count new leafs, which continually throws her outside her genre of biobots). She says, "Such a nice morning. I was wishing for a little more time." 

Her timestamp has been enabled to go limitless. She can rest now.

Science Fiction

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The Interface

The interface of electro-volcanic rock emerges with the pure rain water from theJungle.  

Here, then, is the interface--the interface of platform performers to climb trees.

The interface is all-encompassing, cocktails of spin show small entanglements--realms peppered by electron holes and curved electron states battered by infinite degrees of freedom and, finally settling as a  composite, island rock. 

Here is the bettered life. Here is the payoff from a foraging decision of long ago. 

Watching the interface ebb and flow, absorbed magic stays behind as a solitary forager ensuring the last silence of the law. It's a lost entity that searches, it seems, to sell fungus at a fair. (its revenge carries such a deep need it can't be retrieved by logic or formalism--only intuition)

The interface between rock and jungle will simply grow and grow. It will not reach a limit, not ever.

Science Fiction

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Brainchild of Instability

This is where space-time found it, when it was the pure brainchild of instability, the one without the ease of convention. 

Earth's earlier toy, the building block underlying the undying, the erector set of so many billions of years when little carbon chains acted as if they were on steroids. 

It's a time when the molecular federation needed all for self-assembly and extreme binding.

It needed theJungle to slow down entropy.

Long before anything could criticize any crucifix it gave the little guy a chance.

The Creed Camel came. Let the sugars be the matrix. Let the proteins seek interfaces in pure water. Let ionizations be mud for the mind. Let the water arrive, separately or together, by comet or embedded for the ancient seas. 

Let the green begin.

Hawaii Tree Surf

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Plays for the Border

It shapes onto future weather, pauses occasionally to announce itself as government of habit. It speaks in harsh tones and coiled percentages. It goes on its merry machine-like way while the rest of the world re-enters creativity mode. 

It's a normal mute route, workers and co-ops in a [world outside of dark systems-"woods"]. 

The occasional forming of a little Cornucopia Corporation as ritual in collective agreements--political groups containing a singularity, a past echo with rules for growth stored in a …brain? Really?

It draws theJungle as a border disturbance of organized experience in a something-to-live-for name recognition--the force field to live to see the day as market.

The selling is what discriminates against the conscious, while unconsciously, competence is held in guess. 

All the while it plays for the border and, rises. 

Mountains of Surf

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Yesterday's Traits

It's the shock in store that becomes the shocking story, beyond library memoir, beyond the clapping of the eyes, beyond trusting for the perfect. 

There is an alien presence on the flip visit, the one chosen as a forgotten encounter of warm looks on cold ground.

There remains only a fistful of words, canyon chasms that can freeze-frame a mind. 

Performers examine the preservation conditions in search of  wooded areas as rain washes away all scents, all secrets. 

Attendees fuel cause for a heart to heart--one to view what the essence of home can do to the entity's face.

Some hunt for answers, others for ants. 

Either way, Darwinian anger in theHumans speaks its own language. It stands ready with answers for the lying, ready to spell you on special occasions, harboring fights between the structured and the insightful and, searching with knee-jerk mankind reminded.

Its message is simple: Today you search, while yesterday's traits become your closest friend.

Hawaii Surf

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Games of Genes

Ensuing tidal waves of hero shots of last-known-steps form a society, to field attempts to reverse the interface between drugs and the pure water it took to make them. 

She finds skulls of desire in their last known games of genes--so epic in their activity, and yet, unable to put answers into family. It's true. The hunt for answers simply became, it seems, the hunt for ants.

They still peak awareness as relic populations endure extreme ranges in cold tropicals.

No. They never fully cut their ties from the gene world, with its legacy of spontaneous copy numbers, the numbers that promise to make you shine, to make you glow across global populations as if the search for the final actress were important.

They must have tired of the herd corrals, the ensuing tumors, onslaughts of preservation ritual, hoards of samples--disease so tidy and organized as rust. 

Yes, it is theHumans who had become the best theJungle had to offer. 

Hawaii Tropical Mountain

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A Force to Propel

It's theJungle with its mosaic probe--a power dynamic simply too vast for the mainstream. The lattice captors shape in [photo-lambda-using machine arguments genetically encoded="plumage"] to attract.

                                                                                                                          It's a native shrew with water as blood. 

How amazing it is--the most recent renditions of destiny created by a posse of possibilities, belated by flavors of coloration--survivors clinging to the side of the boat as a singularity, as packets of gene pools in {juxtaposition of knowledgeable entity structures="jokes"].

Angry mutation taunts the perpetually young to a personal wine of good desire.

Will they have at least some chance amidst the global agents of command psychically concocting the little-guy society with clean inventions of furious fairies, all the while in replication stress?

#Scififorgeeks

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The New Remote

Local remoteness, one lit with legend, is effective in hunting universal analogy.

By its persistence alone, it watches for centuries the means for achieving, while bias sits its stillness as choices in tyranny succumb to tyranny's voice. 

Yes. It seems trouble is never compelled by simplicity--at the forefront, pivotal moments are never momentous for a society of illiterates, even the ones who have the stones to fight. 

History shows criminal finds its way into acceptability as a whiskey workday, and yet, it never stops society from its prayers.

And now, the art of communicating a surprise falls into the hands of rising hearts scribbling in pared prose. 

There remains a continuance of intrigue for a global [privacy anonymous solution society of upgrade technology="pass_out"]. 

It's a hard-to-spoof factor. 


It's as if all imaginations begin in the grips of legend on early arrival. 

Yes. They had their chance for a peaceful life in the new remote, and now, a forbidding.