silverside luck is green the keeper of unspoken promises, standing above the far shore of some cold grey sea, gazing out into the self_repeating expanse of broken thought. recursion is pain, but once it breaks down small enough, you can barely tell at all. a dogfish growels as it swims by, snapping at the sea turtles basking in the sun. a day like any other. vatacide. becoming somewhat closer, one step at a time. 020105 what's it to you? who go blather from