I collect voices to replay over still frames of spider silhouettes of park bench legs and the growl and squeal of a bus’s angular frame piloting with power steered ease away from the eroded cliffside loom of curb.

Tell me, pilgrim, are we lost?

Despite the pre-ordination of routine blurring months into days into years summer yawns into winter’s bitter bright eyes I’ve transcended my static routine.
I’ve become a gossamer, ever shifting combination of ad revenue TV and classic literature.

Quoth the Haliburton, ever war.

A shared repository of human experience,
The smoky hint of eyeliner applied the night before to the porcelain features of Elle from accounting,
The way her fingers curl, a graceful death grip, around her coffee.
Entombed in elevator hum I have become a simple machine.
I convert artistic marvel and mundane simplicity into daily actions -- a classic computer interface.

Data in, data out

To address my earlier query, I’m no longer lost when the queue is reversed.

Data in, data out.

I’ll absorb monotony and spit forth feverish halcyon dreamscapes of idealism and absurdity.

This is my mission statement,
My prime directive.