| The data of your ghost is under the dust
|
| A third hand moment, a transfer of lusts
|
| It’s slept for so long, I’ve felt something missing
|
| A haywire drive, a burning, an itching
|
| This scrap, it shouldn’t have happened
|
| A glitch, a digital fog
|
| A trap, a pest, a reaction
|
| It functions like a drug
|
| «To gaze the greying, decayed figureless aching is to fade away
|
| If framed in place, it will stay»
|
| Butcher job circuitry surgery
|
| Eyelids like curtains clinging from static absorbed
|
| Instinct or imprint, rusted intellect in its prime
|
| Blunt instrument, unsupressed power of the mind
|
| By its fingers, in its eyes
|
| By its neckline, in its thighs
|
| Almost human, subtle difference
|
| Static shattered, missing pieces
|
| Building unpaved mindscapes, overgrown, obtuse, out of time
|
| Neglected, abandoned, awkward invention without a spine
|
| Not created at all, evolved through design
|
| Building golems, betraying your kind
|
| «What makes an invention if the invention was destined to be made?»
|
| «Ticking infinity»
|
| (Things you see, gestate, evolve
|
| Into mutated memory cells) |