Biobot Forest

Mix-and-Match Matrix

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Biobot Forest

They probably thought theJungle was a forest, only a forest, she thinks. 

It's theJungle that always returns to itself. It doesn't care, really, about theNetwork (it isn't mindful of those types of things, and it can't stop demands for it to be in recede after being tromped-on by laws and safeguards of a stifling, sanitized order). 

It's a scientific fact that theJungle cares nothing about religion as support or a property right as foundation. Yes, it continues to believe in nothing while theHumans believe in anything and may not, in the end, withstand the strain on the food and water and the air. 

Yes, I am a member (at least genetically) of theHumans, she thinks. 

Knowledge should recognize its own feelings before it acts, right? Being unrecognized in some manner resembles a parenting blunder showing (or, at least pretending to show) a recognition of [scientifically induced methods underlying logical analysis task endeavors="simulate"]. 

Being inside a mix-and-match matrix with questions about science allows a philosophy beyond [common assignment unifying sense energy="cause"]. 

There are acts, much in the manner of a rational foreign agent (an alien?), that show the native inability of theHumans to care. 

She will reward herself once she has finished working on this, her newest [computing algorithm terminal="cat"]. She will exert more control over her decisions and, of course, her actions--no more of that work-in-progress mumbo-jumbo. 

The universe will know the significance of her feelings. It will know.

Ice Cream Aloha

Ice Cream Aloha

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Purple Matrix 

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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.

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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.