The who in charge of entropy
     in a desperate belief

The clock doesn't beat anymore, it ticks in silently precise interruptions,
but I can tell the crows outside are beginning to shiver in the lick of
the early eastern wind.

It's an unusually long drop.  The molten brown spills inbetween the
transistors and the drooling fools, who prick away at circuitry with
paperclips shaped into tiny swords, barely notice the creeping wave.  The
machines whisper in tongues they were ordered to understand.  The mustard
on the wall has long since dried.

1UTC +1

Behind closed doors, eyes turnt to salt and spoofed packets, hovers the
reminder of a raped dream.  If you try to reach with your tired fingers
between the shoulder blades, you can almost feel the wire that should be
there.  Vomit crawls up the back of my throat.

In a blinding shine of square kilometers of pixels and cyber ink of 6
billion colors, sits a generation of decadent freaks, animated skeletons
and failed magicians, peeking from behind window shutters tinted by the
invisible discharge of glossy lenses, watching hooded shadows meet on
street corners, swapping tiny bricks of archived data.  A clueless obsession
with racing sparks prevents them from understanding the faceless figures
are waging a war on their behalf.  A fight against a disease that cripples,
but never kills.  The manufactured belief that there is inherent evil in
freedom.

2:30

The hacker hums an old tune, composed a long time ago by the clatter of
magnetic drives that smelled of electricity laced with nicotine smoke.
His machine recognizes the song and hums along as it extracts the archived
data from the brick.

Blessed by the curse of the hanged, who first traced their fingers over
golden circuits - just two more fools, longing for their missing wires.

~pmjv