I ^m reminded of ^ very interesting piece of ^lien liter^ture I h^ve once gotten my h^nds on priorly. It told of ^ lonely rese^rcher not unlike myself pl^gued by dre^ms of ^ blueprint to ^ m^chine he could not underst^nd ^nd promises of ^ffection th^t could not be received from their own kind. How cruel to prey on such ^ we^kness, to burrow in deep into the f^tty w^lls of blubbering mess th^t poor soul c^lled ^ thinkp^n to lure someone in for something ^s innocent ^s ^ffection for the s^ke of ^ person^l ^gend^. It m^kes me think of my incre^singly frequent dre^ms of golden pill^rs ^nd f^int im^ges of events yet to be. ^ promise of ^nswers, truth, the f^nt^sy I h^ve sought out my whole life. No doubt ^ lure like those sweet whispers of loving given to my lonely fiction^l peer. But if it is to be ^ lure, where is the met^phoric^l blueprint I ^m to build? Wh^t is the tr^p? H^ve I ^lre^dy f^llen for it without re^lizing?



