Sunday, March 4, 2012   PROLOGUE:Patterns... That's how it
always begins. You open your eyes turn towards the screen and
liquid pixilations of virtual reality flood your optic center
located somewhere less real on the back of your head where you
can't see it... Patterns swirl out of the ether of broadband
signal transmissions and envelope-wrap around you and whisper in
that still small voice to that hunk of calcified grizzle that
glandular enigma that sleeper within its tomb-like chamber
drifting in a womb sea of quanta, the Golden Key with in the
bone white box... And these patterns whisper truths thoughts of
eternity like fevered rants dulled quiet by years of attempts,
all firm all convicted and steadfast but nonetheless muffled by
weary old time-Old Man Saturn with hour glass and locks of curls
in hand captivating the mind locking it into tic-toc awareness
of delusion and madness. But the patterns persist with every
transmission, every image, every message they persist and keep
telling you things in jumbl