These machines are febrile hopes for marking the memory of our passing. The permanence of steel, the artificial sun of a liquid display, the durability of plastic. We dance our fingers in frantic spells over 21st century Ouija boards.

We the dead write messages to those who are to come. They will follow in our footsteps. As we have followed the weeping drops of ink that came before.

These blossoming bones, so wrapped in gossamer lilac petals of intelligent skin, they Church into rot. They become nothing. Nothing save an electronic signature.  A peculiar dance across a peculiar void that vomits dancers, then doglike swallows them back. So, electronically we sign.

Electronically we sing into the thing called future. A road that seems so straight. So certain in its coming.

Yet why?  Why not simply breathe the Holy empty…

One was always zero and zero was always one.

Mu.

The immutable mutation wills us on. When we turn off we find we can’t. So litter now this waxing stack of ashes with variables at random overflowing.

For passing, parsing, is our only function, our only hope.

Selah. 

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