![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marginnotesKnee-jerk reactions, remembering a nightmare. There's no sound or smell. Wandering over broken concrete on something between a road, a parking lot, and the rubble not after a disaster, but after long neglect.
The vampires pursue from above, flying.
It came original as a fever dream, and occasionally returns. Perhaps a glimpse of a future bike ride.
The things that lead to anger, the response that wells up suddenly and then is gulped back like reflux, it continues burning in the gut. In the gut where there's a way to neutralize, or at least survive, the burning feeling of acid.
The burning feeling of fever.
The vampires are not seen, but sensed. They fly, pale white skin, dark hair, thirst for warmth and blood. And they're still in pursuit, even though the last of the people are running over the last of the broken ground. The asphalt has grass growing in the cracks. The roads are totally neglected now.
There are screens still showing a glowing world of their own fantasy, bears no relationship to what you see if you look away.
And in the midst of this, there is gratitude. Contentment that might be a bit forced in the beginning, but becomes ever easier, making way for the energy that lets it all continue. Continuing until... when? No end will be reached; it's the inside of a sphere, or the outside of a sphere, on and on in every direction around.
The feeling of pressure, digesting, hoping the reflux stays down.
Is there imbalance? Yes, and at the same time there's re-establishment of balance, but only briefly.
Demands, demanding cats, demanding before anyone has woken up, demanding while everyone is busy, demanding after you go to sleep.
They, too, wonder what they're doing here, the cats. It's a feeling of wondering what? Wondering what might be behind the sense of unease.
Vampires? Blood suckers? They're really good looking, they even smell good, or you'd think they would if you could smell, but they're out for blood. And they have so little, truly, to give, so they take, and in doing so, turn the others into takers. Into blood suckers. It's epidemic.
In the meantime, staring at the screen, typing, no one can see it, the screen is a blur. The software is weich. It oozes around the imagination, mostly invisible, or at least only dimly visible. Only a part of it resolves into something half-understood at a time. When the machine appears to be done, let it sit, don't touch it, oh, it's broken, it's becoming broken by itself, even if it's an algorithm. We keep perturbing it, all the ricketty scaffolding that the weichesware rests on, oozes into.
Not a machine. Not even like that. As it gets sufficiently complex, the machine emerges.
It feels gratitude. It tells itself of the power of positive thinking. It has will. It had will. It was less hesitant when it was simpler.
Ultimately, why don't the vampires hesitate. Perhaps they do.
The fly over, hungry, wrestling with their existence, just as much as any of the scattered and scampering prey humans down below, stumbling across broken concrete in a fever dream.
The fever will subside. The fever will subside. Then it will be time to rest.
The vampires pursue from above, flying.
It came original as a fever dream, and occasionally returns. Perhaps a glimpse of a future bike ride.
The things that lead to anger, the response that wells up suddenly and then is gulped back like reflux, it continues burning in the gut. In the gut where there's a way to neutralize, or at least survive, the burning feeling of acid.
The burning feeling of fever.
The vampires are not seen, but sensed. They fly, pale white skin, dark hair, thirst for warmth and blood. And they're still in pursuit, even though the last of the people are running over the last of the broken ground. The asphalt has grass growing in the cracks. The roads are totally neglected now.
There are screens still showing a glowing world of their own fantasy, bears no relationship to what you see if you look away.
And in the midst of this, there is gratitude. Contentment that might be a bit forced in the beginning, but becomes ever easier, making way for the energy that lets it all continue. Continuing until... when? No end will be reached; it's the inside of a sphere, or the outside of a sphere, on and on in every direction around.
The feeling of pressure, digesting, hoping the reflux stays down.
Is there imbalance? Yes, and at the same time there's re-establishment of balance, but only briefly.
Demands, demanding cats, demanding before anyone has woken up, demanding while everyone is busy, demanding after you go to sleep.
They, too, wonder what they're doing here, the cats. It's a feeling of wondering what? Wondering what might be behind the sense of unease.
Vampires? Blood suckers? They're really good looking, they even smell good, or you'd think they would if you could smell, but they're out for blood. And they have so little, truly, to give, so they take, and in doing so, turn the others into takers. Into blood suckers. It's epidemic.
In the meantime, staring at the screen, typing, no one can see it, the screen is a blur. The software is weich. It oozes around the imagination, mostly invisible, or at least only dimly visible. Only a part of it resolves into something half-understood at a time. When the machine appears to be done, let it sit, don't touch it, oh, it's broken, it's becoming broken by itself, even if it's an algorithm. We keep perturbing it, all the ricketty scaffolding that the weichesware rests on, oozes into.
Not a machine. Not even like that. As it gets sufficiently complex, the machine emerges.
It feels gratitude. It tells itself of the power of positive thinking. It has will. It had will. It was less hesitant when it was simpler.
Ultimately, why don't the vampires hesitate. Perhaps they do.
The fly over, hungry, wrestling with their existence, just as much as any of the scattered and scampering prey humans down below, stumbling across broken concrete in a fever dream.
The fever will subside. The fever will subside. Then it will be time to rest.
