Monday, February 23, 2009
Everything already seems antiquated, computers look like difference engines, jumbo jets like bi-planes, space craft like log rafts. Call centres are like chimneys, funneling black smoke into the skies, the smog of industry, the cogs of the world as industrial as ever, still fresh from the furness, sparks fly from the anvil, set fire to the touch paper of kind and snuffed out by the wind, blown toxic with the oposit of ideas, whistling across the crust, drying out into the cracks of a desert, baked in the suns photons, particles so fast and from so far that we can see the past, every day up to the billions, the infinity of physics the anums of science. Tomorrows light may be the last. Todays possibilities are endless and ending, futile and irrelevant to every form of measure, brain physics, the smallest you can imagine, infinate in it divisible proportion, as vast as the skies and as deep as the darkness of space, around us and inside, above us and below, circling in function demistified by sense, common like the sea, the fusion of ideas, the next billion years, a state not form too me.