I'm driving over the ancient ruins of the future. Pictogram arrows, one-by-one, guide Turtle Island's finest blind horsemen down the old black road. Silent haunts so joyfully - until you're cursed by the moaning of engines & sirens, as all good men find themselves to be. & lines that never stop to cross, filed deeply away under three colored lights in the sky. What could This all mean?

When I finally die, parts of my soul will become the Internet.
When handled properly, Code never fails.
I ask my technology to work as hard as I do.
& when I do, it does.

This is how I know that the future is a forest.
To a fox, the human is just another car to dodge. Just another empty hand to follow. Idiot personality, you never tamed them once, nor any other time. & you'll never tame them. How dumb they'd be - to ever end the game. Rather, they will make you afraid and allergic, render you as mute as a deer. Forever full of nervous respect before that thing you love. This, so we all have some space to run. God, let's all become foxes.

& now I know.
There is no way but the indian way.

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