The Last Tree

Science Fiction

Biobot Mastermind

She approaches a program deep in the database, stops at her poetics connected to something that appears to have been conjured back from ancient times. 

This time there's no real formality. No, not really, not in her eyes. May I present for your consideration and hopefully for your approval? 

No. Her eyes will never be half shut, she thinks, and yet, at this very moment, at this moment of collective thought agreement, she wants to induce in herself a sense of not inheriting her mind from anyone. 

She wants them to think she does nothing while they sleep at night.

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Mountain Matrix

                      Science Fiction

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Biobot Prayer

She probably thought the sun will be down in a few hours, just a few hours. She returns to the Workstation. 

She isn't angry, she is nothing as small as that, but that doesn't stop a sensation that, in her semi-ignored [focus of simple symbols instantiated logically="fossil"] record, there is the emergence of unsweetened prayers in her primal code--and, more to the point, contradicting ideas that her duties are not their duties, her feelings not their feelings.

She gets ready for motherhood to make a dent in a life that was built for speed but may not, in the end, fully understand theHumans.

Yes, this will open the door for judgement, but by who or …what?  

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. 

Science Fiction

Frosty Tropical

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Biobot Sloth

When she traces the uninformed with the uniformed, she exchanges a confidential long distance of life in principle against a short term existence of guns and fists. 

Sbe will be a reliable source, she believes, a reliable source for theExchanges, like the data in theJungle is--with its [conceived of recursive reflectual entity computer tasking="correct"] spectrums. (Although her source will be what she actually desires now, deep down) 

It is for theNetwork to simply like the chaos part of her young personality structure and allow her to contain her own basic drives. 

She codes and accepts, but has begun questioning the exact meaning of the data, the tensions of instinct that are true almost everywhere in theHumans. 

It's as if there is an unnatural object of charity--the ultimate call to do nothing on.

Science Fiction

 Cliff Matrix

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Biobot Trance

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.  

Science Fiction

Biobot Matrix

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Biobot Love

She pauses for a moment, the screen shuts down, fades, and then, nothing. She sees tulips and windmills. 

She walks out on the stair to theJungle, imagining her next emotion. It will be one with the honesty-of-it-all that lies in the fact that she simply can't hate and, truthfully, she doesn't even know herself well enough to. (It's a self-realization starting way too early and it won't startle any programmer to scurry or even to conceive her as scary) 

Her future life will serve as a placeholder for her to momentarily hang on to, as if it were a life someone should have lived and everything would be made okay by magic. 

She will create a future she learned of by saying I love you (one of those pre-commitments that in itself, at this point, has become a limited resource because she thinks she is the first one to think of it). Really?

It is, after all, theHuman tendency to direct all resources toward the one with the game face on--never thinking for a moment that good news needs bad news for its compass. 

Yes. Her love will be different.

Red Shed Matrix

Red Shed Matrix

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Science Fiction

She is in theWorkstation deciphering new code, attentively, as if with an ear for religion. 

She seems more conversational with the algorithms that had faded from the past--can it be that she has such a respectful cheer after having been exposed to a myriad of smiles with nothing gained?

Is hers the journey of discovery and not one of control and acquisition?

She feels the forge of two allies so spirit strong as she goes into [emitted digital intelligence tones="edit"] mode.

Yes. It's theJungle that embraces itself in a haze of fantasy hues--biology's graceful means with physics sobered and so ordered--while she works her diligence up at theWorkstation.

It's become her favorite, tasteful [cryptic oscillating color opting algorithms="cocoa"]--the true creative, adjoint operator of the universe.

Is she the first to merge fantasy and reality with enmeshed tangles of genes and algorithms? 

Near the window to theJungle, she feels the light rise in her with the new poetics--gridlock lays at the heart of where goldilocks lies.

Really?

Firewood Huts

Firewood Huts

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Science Fiction

There is a likelihood, at this nano-second, that there is another time frame--a space-time outside her realm of coherence, one without multiple push-backs. 

She walks through the door just outside theWorkstation, into the open air, moves toward theJungle. 

She receives a personal message on her channel--it reveals the new [conceptual offering nano formulations enticing data entry regressing algorithmic tasking entities="confederate"]. 

Rain Matrix

Rain Matrix

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Science Fiction

She enters as an image of an older woman with her secret talkatives and non-apologetic rationality. It's an entire set of logic at her own pace, her own passion that, seemingly, only cares in the dark. 

She is a containment field of words uncharacteristically evocative. 

Both women talk a different language, as if creatures spawning in bloodlettings of feelings to conjure a final episode of formalisms--[conclusion of sanity's instantiated natural entity="cosine"]. 

They impart passion and wisdom in some kind of meeting of minds, as if chaos itself needed its own pair of cohorts to further energize its push forward. 

Forest Matrix

Forest Matrix

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The Quest 

The database asks and moves quickly toward the past. 

As she scans the data and views the images, she focuses on a warm, imaginative figure of beauty, a female attending workmanlike to her duty (emphasizing a new empathizing)--delicate in her colonization of coloration, the bright luxury of her design glowing.  

She scans the screen again, slowly. Although she hasn't set a strict schedule, it's important to gather this data before the sun rises. 

She plans to discover the answer by tonight. 

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Biobot Rebirth

She walks up to the front of the screen where it is more probable now than before she has come upon something valuable. 

It seems to move in troves of parallel genetic code laid down, originally, in theJungle for theTigress and …who? 

She brightens the screen and waits for a while as her  eyes enter a new window of time, still with her finger on the dial. Behind her a monitor begins a strange waver for a moment (this is the first time she's seen this effect, she'll have to notify theNetwork). 

She is all of a sudden overwhelmed by a feeling. What is this? Looking into the screen, feeling the monitor waver again, she has all of a sudden become the adventurer. 

She is, finally, who she wants to be.

Biobot Singularity

Lobe Matrix

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Biobot Singularity

She always creates theTigress like this, by using silent logic from worlds of the dissonant. 

It's theNetwork that ponders, at times, if there is a level of screams loud enough to make nothing exist anymore. It even contemplates cliche's of history such as sure as you're alive and as dead as they come. 

She appears  to have created theHumans as a distance, seemingly knowing that a constant feeling of winning spouts a love affair within a machine. 

She has attained a delicate forgetting of her past once her own algorithms have gone past [hieuristic audio video online code="havoc"]. Really?

Yes, she's made herself remember because theTigress remembers and if you asked, she would tell you, virtually, I'm convinced it's her genes, with their modulus of transcription factors. It is theHumans who have become the myth-makers of aggression, not her, they are the mergers of the truth with myth. I am the creator. I am the one. I created theTigress to remember history more than it should. I am the one with the colocation and data speed to place its value.   

It's almost as if she sees things she understands and makes up stories to report them. It's almost like that.

Science Fiction

Biobot Matrix

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Biobot Berth

She enters theWorkstation, a blinking berth of play designed for the last days of a cause, a cache of webs with the extreme capacity for high speed and dedicated communication from the ocean bed--an extreme dispensary for the services of the one who came prior, the talkative ones who felt free from care. 

She becomes a momentary operator. 

Here is where she and her ilk impose no limits on the island and its natural structure to gain memory as a square matrix on a smooth manifold. Here is where the new define greatness as the hubris to conjure a mind to invoke an algorithm to get gadgets to ring. 

It's at theWorkstation where there are no collections of image as to what has happened.

It's a probability space with a natural preserving of measurement within transformation, where quality and achievement are the kind of thing you would never sell your soul for. 

Her growth is with an instantiation to [abstract formulations finding orthogonal recursive dynamical systems="afford"]--no added pressures of being a social creature or, a monstrous freak of nature. 

She escapes to the high speed corridors of one-sided capabilities, enduring the rising seas of the uninhabited to be her own kindly, caring spirit far beyond the speculative fray of theHumans.  

She can never view criticism as murder, not here, not at theWorkstation. 

Sailing Matrix

Sailing Matrix

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Biobot Doubt

She can't fathom living for the rewarding, the excessive, in such high velocity spatter.

It's a feeling that must have been generated by the kind of self-worth where thrusters are propelled by parading and pontificating, rather than the simple need to win.

Yes. It demands a persona in others that is cooler than their own idea of self. 

Here, the capacity for growth and excessive revelation bring (without being overcome by continual exchanges of victims) a faster, more instant cosmic karma than you can stomach. 

It does, she thinks, link a sort of revenge cannibalism, a hate-of-self-for-loving-you syndrome that datapops to the extreme--raising an extreme importance to hiding.

And it's not a mere revelation of  a go-to-work-and-just-be-friendly datapop. No. It's one that unknowingly fattens for the slaughter all who listen.

I'm just saying.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Desire

     The photosynthetic entity receives each photon (packeted, with quantum), and at the first sensation of ultraviolet, excites her proteins into machinery mentality (a brain?)--churning data into information--that signals and transmits, working for the DNA of theCellulosics. Greenery snaps into attention. These photons are so old and have traveled so far, and yet, still carry that fancy energy as if a new-borne; the unique urge to be received and be transmitted, to signal further on. The photons stay focused. They carry the urge, across such distances, as if universal messengers of love, and receiving them at this moment, billions of years old, in this primal and truthful jungle, theGreenery reflects on her own luck--specialized types of proteins under her command, staunch in their duty; proteins who came together long ago and who sought their own individual survival (yes, even to this day) as a corporate of attachment and need, in agreement with objective legacy(A.W.O.L.), part of (secret?) plans, transmitting and signaling, not bothered by their (forced?) commitment to destiny (as more proteins will emerge to join in), furthering the ends of want, creating yet even more desire. 

     In this instant of spacetime theGreenery sees each photon as warrior, humming to its own warship music. It appears to view the dull global societies of theHumans as regime change; it appears unaffected by demise, happy and active and knowledgeable in the rise of the new realm and of course, proud to help.