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Posted: Sun Mar 16, 2008 12:06 am
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There is a certain detachment in her fingers as she types in short quick bursts between the long and not-quite-empty spaces of conception. They are unfamiliarly clumsy, their awkwardness surprising in stark contrast with her usual sure movements, slowed and slipped by the late night unreality, but still earnest though it's been hours since they were lax; untaxed. If she were paying attention, she would rest them, flex them for a relievingly painful moment, but she has eyes only for the harsh bright screen where narrow text pulses softly through the distortion of a sleepy brain.
She is not exactly happy, programming in the dark. It isn't a joking prediction she ever expected to make good on, but there it is. She is lightheaded and tired and stunningly aware of only one sensation; smooth plastic against the fevered fingertips, and that's enough when she spells out compile, lips moving soundless to match her fingers though she doesn't realize it, and every perfect indented line becomes a perfect cog in her grand machine.
She makes no celebratory move against all the heavy air pressing in around her tightly coiled form except for a small hissing release of tight-held breath. She is not exactly happy; but the precise movements of her creation make it worth it, this regular magic like science. No; not even as precious- precarious - as science, closer to machinery, mindless in the depths beneath the ever shifting infinity of numbers. Not mindless; meaningless. Meaningless - she gropes for a word - like clockwork. Clockwork.
She's going insane. She's going to sleep.
a/n: Um. No idea why I wrote this. Mostly an exercise in style, I guess. Thoughts?
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Posted: Sun Mar 16, 2008 4:40 pm
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Posted: Sun Mar 16, 2008 6:17 pm
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Posted: Mon Mar 31, 2008 8:02 pm
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Posted: Mon Mar 31, 2008 8:15 pm
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Posted: Thu May 01, 2008 9:59 pm
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