space is where all the good stuff is happening
thin branch of desert plant
no need to know what finally killed it
broke it / sugar glass / corruption
disappointed love is hate and was from start
so i got tired and i care no more
splinters of last windshields’ blow still in brow //
eyelids lifting to beauty of new turn.
extending a thought by smith and/or burroughs,
hereby suggested a model in which files are never stored on any disk or medium anymore, but forever kept in transit, i.e. network interfaces configured such that every incoming packet gets forwarded and sent out again without ever being stored. a network of hosts to be configured to reflect files in such a way.
files may at all times be extracted from this transient non-storage, and played, processed, whatever. yet they never are stored anywhere.
if no prior art exists, these here lines constitute it.
and the children were playing and running round and the birds were singing in the trees, singing beautifully –
just an old man, sitting on a bench, he could not smile –
he kept pointing at the birds, saying
“that song is mine! mine!” –
the children could not even be bothered to argue with him –
they glanced at him briefly with eyes saying “oh! you poor old fool” then dashed off again, playing.
they left him sitting there.
one day he died.
the birds were still singing.
there are so many more things that are not than there are things that are.