Boy's wake.

I look to forward days; your knees bent before concrete and soil. The place of your palms cradle his roots of aged, draping between fingers of youth. With earth sifting through, and sprouts waking high; he swims back to you.

Conflict.

And so it goes with machines. Astronomical sums are nice, but blood is best. Flesh is easier. Mind and will are excellent. The captain is all these. The computer doesn't know I live. The captain does. He looks, he sees, he interprets, he decides. He tells me where to go. And as he is my captain, as I go.

Straight to hell.

Then hell it is.


Ray Bradbury's Leviathan '99.

Feel of the leave.

For even the thundering rocket, which rips the soul on Earth, walks silently some few miles high, treads the stars without footfall, as if in awe of the great cathedral of space.


Ray Bradbury's Leviathan '99.