Discussion in 'Writing' started by Boreas, Aug 17, 2016.
Nanites course through my blood, singing.
Space spiders weave webs of evolution.
The wave-function collapses and I am.
Chip in hand signaled about discharge.
The syringe pierced skin, injecting nanites.
I live in utopia and despair.
I was thinking of Blood Music when I wrote that, and your riff makes me think of it even more!
A God? No. No! Artificial lie.
Space battles blow up the bugs.
Mors certa, vita incerta, chickenhead puzzled…
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