Were we really so predictable

our first words would be a plea for atoms

not our own. We’d assume the geometry

of stubborn digits unwilling to change,

the clockface that refuses to acknowledge

it’s faulty mathematical skills. Fetal

dreams could be traced in figure-eight

formations, processed in a language

built on numbers. We’d tinker around

existence in the same manner as drug-

seeking behavior, craving wavelengths

in psychoactive intensity. That is

desperation, isn’t it? We’re not that

easy, just determined. Sentient.

Programmable. Free. Desperate.


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Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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