As if we were flung from oblivion, we feel the wind rushing past us in great gusts as we fall. The air and chill bleeds into a great swath of gray, around, surround, like some low poly un-rendered texture. The light bleeds by so fast, it's drip fed to me like the slides of a business power point, floors above us all. Life is no miracle, no messiah to lecture propriety.

Like some great meridian line extended forth from the soul, we navigate waves of sand and spore, running forever, compass high in hand. I scream out, "Wind, Oh Guide Me I Beg." But in answer: whistling.

Shaded, the guile of all those around surrounds fathoms in dimension as steps taken crack earth and concrete. Fantasy fills the air, the chorus of war and the metal intertwining of a thousand floors, creaking no differently from the galleon's mast. Like duelists readying briefcases for briefs and presentations, along they march two by two, guns ready, drawn, and fired. Like kings so far and slain old stars, we watch them like our modern art.

I think I'm dead in this new world, a bug un-sprayed for seconds long. A memory to last in ecstasy must be given coffee and whipped. I walk a path alone, no god; We find our shores have shrunk, the boats adrift in air. And to the computer I say, "I Cry My God Let Me Please Stay." In passion and love, binary hands wrap my neck and fuck me unto death.

Dreams cannot die so mortal their demise, they are but filaments in light bulbs un-shined; their electric dreams still drifting on the current lines. Outward towards infinity we run, to reach the impossible, to catch the elevator. As we arrive, the ding does cry, and together we find ourselves awry.

As if we were flung from oblivion, we die.