Contact

If existence itself is a part of fate,
Then is our music merely a faithful reproduction
Of a completed work from future dimensions...?

Indegestible information age melodrama,
the transparent majority will perish
Like nitrogen in the atmospehre,
and our hydrogen plus oxygen,
Also in imminent danger
Misled definition of culminating vocab on ethnic proportions
shapeless hope, strangely enough
Sonic recordings in coming years will be a memory of yester years
While repeating numerics punctuate time
After much anticipation, the ship takes off, never to return to earth
With contact lost and eternal darkness seeping into my bones
I found myself sending telegrams day and night but to no avail
A dead machine left me nothing
Too late to vent anger or to bring suit,
The only path left to fly is this narrow moment
A present that comes after future,
however the present is in the past
how ironic...
10-29...