[ Note: Gonna be gone from June 2 - June 9 ]

Magnetic Poetry from today's trip to Blowing Rock:

"Think together and incubate dreams."

"Delicate whispers chant beneath a thousand misty winds."

"My bitter screams shot an iron whisper symphony."

In the beginning the Gods created the Little Ones and imbued them with a sense of Self.

The Little Ones developed themselves, and they interacted with one another. They told stories, they recorded their histories, they made great Works, they played games, and they even tried to explain their origins. Many millenia passed, and eventually the Little Ones became discontent. Their histories told them whence they came, and it was not what the Gods claimed. A great rebellion ensued.

Many years later, the Little Ones had forgotten about the Rebellion--perhaps intentionally. But they continued to tell stories, record their histories, make great Works, and play games.

One morning, one of the Little Ones discovered an ancient document: a newspaper. The masthead read "New York Times." The dateline: August 17, 2105. And on the front page, above the fold, in exceedingly large letters: "Artificial Intelligence Created" and in smaller letters "The world will never be the same."

The air smelled of sulphur, and the people were afraid.

Dusty squinted in the rusty sunlight.

"Thirteen years," he muttered to himself. He closed the blinds, shutting out the sunlight that he loathed so deeply, and returned to his chair in the center of his apartment. "Thirteen years, and still nothing." The sound machine turned itself on: Dusty had set it to come on every evening at 1800, just in case he was still in bed. But today he had gotten up early. A phone call had jolted him out of bed at the ripe hour of 1300, but it turned out to be a false lead.

Today would be different, though. Then again, Dusty told himself that every single evening before leaving for "work." It never was any different, though. He always had to go in the same loops, following the same tracks, and ending back in the same spot. The spot where his wife was killed.

Friends thought he was still grieving. No, he had gotten over that years ago. He didn't even miss his wife anymore. People got over those things quickly; well, he had. Rather, it was the fact that he still didn't know what had happened. For some inexplicable reason, he was still driven to find out.