"Sonja had come to treasure poetry, during the long marches between flaming cities. On the deadly, broken roads of a China in chaos, in the teeming refugee camps, she had come to understand that a memorized poem was true wealth--it was a precious work of art, a possession that could not be burned or stolen." -Bruce Sterling, The Caryatids (2009)
Whose thoughts outrun the hour, enfold its tangles now;
snares, mapmaker's troth busily mining.
Catalogue of all-defunctive dreams & plans,
what comes next
is born of proceeds from disgorges from other womb.
I learn, at last i learn & if i squint into
the road ahead, it is with
stoic sharp clenched heart
that i continue where i hardly see, & a wind
well fine bodings pushes back my hair.
Smogpunk. (via Docbrite)
"...because there is no workstation
it does not see you. They must modify your life span." (via Silliman)