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Fictional Writings of Elleander Grey


  • Elleander had an insatiable need, a complete and helpless desire to do the things that he hated. But the lust for the things he loved created his joy for life. In a sense it was like picking up rocks from a creek . All random as hell in the beginning but evolving to know his choices and why his selections were his choices. Maybe it was like reading a book, the way that every page turned and every line forgotten from existence. But each idea shook the inside circuitry to clarity. The circuitry remained forever, but the clarity was rerouted. But of course no one utilized the clarity that was available to them so they turned into lazy arrogant greed invaded monsters. What a terrible way to turn out. Regret, a thing passed on to children of processed beings. It forced us into robotics, to learn and to process, to create a thing with no candor or deliberateness. Constructed only to feed themselves, “do what you are told, and you will be fed.” Humans were now robots. The park benches were constructed so some robots may be made in order to better serve the atmosphere. Sit them down on the bench. Yes, they were made to enjoy things. Watch them move like clockwork among streets crossed by robots before them. We were made to enjoy this park bench. “Fuck the robots, we are not them, we made them, we will not be them. Until the sun would shine on buildings upon plazas upon countries, they would still move, the damn things were taking over every city in the world.” Elleander commented to his dearest friend Dillon. “You could watch them now, and easily decipher how they were, and, how they are.” “Regret, such a tired word.” And to that the friends drank and smoked. It isn’t real, it hasn’t become so solid quite yet. If it were, oh my how things would seem. As if this reality could actually force itself upon humanity. How was it imagined before it was constructed, was it constructed and then imagined? The tireless story does not cease to give up. Does the artist create the robot, or the robot create the artist? The conversation steadied with reversals and rolling maneuvers. “Fuck philosophy. Look what has come to them, only death and short lives.” Elleander was drunk. He opened his fortune cookie and read aloud. “The eyes of the future will bring joy of forever. Let it come and you will go.” “I think I read that in the New york times, 11/23/2043 edtion.” Maybe that was the year. So where does that leave you and me?
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