Contact

If existence itself is a part of fate,

Then is our music merely a faithful reproduction

Of a completed work from future dimensions...?

Indegestible information age melodrama,

the transparent majority will perish

Like nitrogen in the atmospehre,

and our hydrogen plus oxygen,

Also in imminent danger

Misled definition of culminating vocab on ethnic proportions

shapeless hope, strangely enough

Sonic recordings in coming years will be a memory of yester years

While repeating numerics punctuate time

After much anticipation, the ship takes off, never to return to earth

With contact lost and eternal darkness seeping into my bones

I found myself sending telegrams day and night but to no avail

A dead machine left me nothing

Too late to vent anger or to bring suit,

The only path left to fly is this narrow moment

A present that comes after future,

however the present is in the past

how ironic...

10-29...