Systems Not Goals.
Dirty cups and dishes.
The clattering clutter of hurried snacks.
Of untidy thoughts,
half wrought projects
and abandoned ideas.
Each clacking key
yields to staccato fingers
and emerald green text
that pops into a black expanse.
The cacophony of audio tracks
assured to promote productivity,
and a pause to the silent tinnitus
that precedes the next burst of inspiration.
Weeks of backache bent to the work.
Spine stacked one atop the other, just so.
Sit just right, with good posture,
and the spasm subsides.
I can remain balanced
in this tiny painless locus
indefinitely.
And the smell of aeons.
A grey glade of untouched dust collects upon the desk,
falling softly from constant grey skies onto this snowy slope.
A cloth of felt as enduring as concrete.
The greying hairs of a loyal clerk,
as permanent as tombstones.
Systems not goals.
Mal Content
It took less than a decade for the creative arts to become fully synthetic. No one was particularly surprised by this. A technology so capable of making an amateur seem talented would undoubtedly make those with a real gift and something to say seem no more talented than an amateur.