NYC. push your habit. visual delights. children of the matrox.

Commited to the unending search for karmatic-enriching substance abuse on company property, we persevered. Caffeine delerium and second drafts of final version kisses ran rampant across my eyes.

Depth of focus. Fondled flesh.

Rave girls invited back to our dual monitor NT workstation sub chambers. Math equation openGL plays to the DJ Ditach'i electronica of an mp3'd insanity ghosted throughout the SOHO office.

Binary pimp-core.

After-hour-always-on connections. apache server-ware.

Lauren, the baby-top riot-girl. Braless and sweating,she halogen lighted our space and directed criss-crossing traffic. Ever so perfect misunderstandings with my hands and her body occur as she grabs and questions, always asking,"what does THAT do?" or "can I press this button cause it'll do what?"

Mitchell comments on Maya. Lucas routes work to the rendering farm.

Disney Studios on crack.

Marjorie, goosed from the mild shock of frayed cable on white skin, sleeps under the router cabinet. I fumble for bennies wedged between her red snake-leather pants and thin cotton panties.

Eight hours till the 7am shift arrives. Lucas is bleeding on the complimentary SGI IRIS workstation mouse pads. I can't help but texture everyone and everything. I don't want to get caught. I tell everyone to quiet the fuck down.

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