I think, and my thoughts cross the barrier into the synapses of the
machine, just as the good doctor intended. But what I cannot shake,
and what hints at things to come, is that thoughts cross back. In my
dreams, the sensibility of the machine invades the periphery of my
consciousness: dark, rigid, cold, alien. Evolution is at work here,
but just what is evolving remains to be seen.
If I could read your mind, love,
What a tale your thoughts could tell
Just like a paperback novel,
The kind the drugstore sells,
When you reach the part where the heartaches come,
The hero would be me,
Heroes often fail,
You won't read that book again, because
the ending is just too hard to take....
