What relief. Serene Columbus among the branes, remember-me-nots sprouting in the accretion discs, sanctus sanctus sanctus Lord God of onwardness and recentness. All around, the optative anthem without recoil fills the air, augments the lungs. The cool eschatology of blip and blink sinks in and rises through me in dreams of gyndroids: this is my own planet, this is the bliss of being alive among the compliant undead. To have bet on the Schwarzschild equation and escaped, one beautiful plus among the minuses. Like a surgeon, I explore. Purely. Hier ist kein wahrum.
© Ger Killeen