Gentle desperation,
shot down copper wire,
binding the connection.
Forced natural conformity,
falling leaves,
over synthetic stone,
stared down by glass canyons.
Can I find,
a peace,
a placid subjugation,
of deadly solitude.
No past to bury,
no future to light an artificial life.
Pervasive data,
decompiling god,
and finding nothing rooted in substance.
Intangible light,
suffocated by what?
What black cloth?
Arriving home,
not an action,
just a name.
False poet's hand,
forges circular discourse,
on pages more blank than the mind.
Perhaps better,
to travel over,
than through the substratum,
separating life from the data.
Thin veils stop the transition,
and prevent too much numbing,
by a tender cold.
While my machines sleep,
I live only partially complete.

original prose, Yurei, 2000
part of Phase Maintenance

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