archived_dream kingsuperspecial In the sense of breath and exhale, alive applies to me. I can be, see, say, and do, but the days of feel, soar, and hope seem to be archived in the past, sealed for preservation an example of an ancient craft lost in modern times. thinking, the machine records the passage of a life. incoming data is mapped, dated, and stored. lines are compared, details noted, summaries created, files closed. within, love is diffused, strung along miles of wire, the years of recording, linking and tying have spun a near infinite web, that inter-locks, leading nowhere pulsing with thoughts - think, do, interrupt, change there is no space left for loftier traffic only echoes of the potential, the original design I can feel new and happy I can enjoy, hold, care, and notice but still the static remains new data, however novel, will be overwhelmed by traffic studied, fractioned, and frozen there seems to be nothing that can touch the darkest corners never inspired, will not bare all, cannot let go. __hi_mom 020916 what's it to you? who go blather from