Monday, July 18, 2005

quick sketch, 3b pencil on charcoal paper

Protecting. Swaddling. Retarding. The great halls, every bit as deluding and constricting as the cave. Trade earthen walls for granite ones, enclosing a thousand years of lies burning hot as any fire. Like a factory pushing out useless machines, each complete with a certificate of authenticity - but without a certificate of guaranteed functionality.

Life is hard for these machines venturing beyond the cave. Dreams like shadows on a wall, thoughts and words every bit as insubstantial. Their squeaking irises overwhelmed by the sudden dazzling light, they're hampered by kinked necks and once fettered legs. Movement is slow and unsteady for these machines, so they tend to not move at all. They cluster in groups where they feel most safe, and they long, constantly, to return to the comfort of the factory.

And what do they talk to each other about? They relay, back and forth, the information that was fed into them in the factory, the cave, for it is all they know. Preprogrammed, they are always right because they were not made to be wrong. Standardized patterns of thought. Nothing unusual, here. It's not so much talking as it is verbalizing. Ventriloquizing, the age-old fire speaks through them, and the machines' sooty breath hangs shadowy in the air.

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