'96, '97, '98...
December 17, 1996 ___ From a Dream:
"...Are you experienced?" asked the sage,
every (called em 'Heads' back then) saith: "Oh, verily yeahah, we took the microdot purple haze and some even the dreaded brown: 'go to the information booth, man,
it's a bummer please' - cat's wearin a three piece suit with a nose ring tradin on NASDAQ."
Jimi suffocates on bile and puke the stories range nobody knows what
becomes of anyone less their own sweet selves: might as well 'move' and cap that reaper. Yeahah... but
Jimi's file is sealed, like that distant capsule with
one man sittin' alone lunarscape, implant nestled intracranial, modest communication with the denizens housed in a monopour with exterior curves
and angles: future tech meets ziggurat and egyptian deities patrol the lobby like overzealous security guards. "No back and forth." They instruct. All you
wanna do is admire the weird architecture... OK, they let you go back 'once', as long as it's "out the building."
Top secret stuff; guy's daughter's talking to him without a radio wave a world apart with, get it, no delay. The big-wigs
are totally stoked: they see it: computer access with mind alone. Only the tip. Unconsciously we depict it with comedies divine and specially affected
entrainment. Brave new world, brave new world... new world order out of chaos. No wonder thoughts turn to escape: go to the
yellow sulphur world - no online fastfood franchises there, just your own sweet self and glory
glory hallelujah. We can't stop the other. Oh sweet rarest of gems, we consume you mindlessly in obeisance to the stern double helix task master, flying ever
outward like savage hungry demigods. Knowing when to stop is more difficult than knowing when to start.