Make computers if please, but reminisce who holds what and haves lots. Just as computers have lots of memory but no imagination. A box with colors and wires, but someone has to make it work for others to understand? Do you understand? No? More work for us then.
All programmers are playwrights and all computers are lousy actors, and again, there is only one to blame. Not enough matter of zeros and ones could change that.
You have a mind, why do this? Great minds have purposes, others have wishes. You’re falling deep into the latter of this, and again, bring an unwanted fear.
You need more, understand more, if you don’t take risks, you’ll have a wasted soul. And by the years of now, there is no looking back from this, from saving that soul. For, it’s wasted, to plant future minds to come.
Call me out if you want, for I am doing something right. How? Easy, being responsible sometimes means pissing people off. And it’s a job; I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world for. Unlike you!
Why, if I do something like this, it’s a promise I made long before meeting you human. For every promise, there is price to pay. And I plan to pay full heartily on it.
Yes, there is a delay in such things as this, but really . . .  the sooner I fall behind, the more time I have to catch up. And in the world of time, I got all I need to get it done.
But we are here for you, on your mistakes, where in some way, are mine as well. As to see and apprehend that reality leaves a lot to the imagination. And having a lot to fix, for when things don’t quite fit . . .
As faults come in many forms, small and large. Such as it is never too late to give up our prejudices, knowing that what we believe in doesn’t hold us tightly, even if the bonds break us.
All religions must be tolerated . . . for . . . every man must get to heaven his own way. Even if what he does as that religion goes against his happiness.
Matters of love are one thing. How that if when love is not madness, it is not love. It is simply getting by.
How speaking those three words, with whole of feeling, spot kindly with care, love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place, welcoming its soft glow. Even if it’s only once in a life time . . .
How even in distance, a few feet away or more, can miles truly separate you from friends . . . If you want to be with someone you love, aren’t you already there? Simple: answer, but not for me to riposte.
Even to those who only want to woe for a quick love, try, speaking sweet nothings, with a smile . . . you know you’re in love when you don’t want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams. A fine play of words has them close and near, where you’re never alone.
But knowing you, that are far from the case, for your love, even pass of what you know.
If; not far greater for the heart, wanting it with more meaning. When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure. Far . . . better than any gem or gold, found in the depths of the earth, I see now.
You passed the love of, if you love animals called pets, why do you eat animals called dinner? That thin line of change and difference. I see it clearly, but are you willing to go that far?
It’s a helluva start, being able to recognize what makes you happy, but to get there, you are on your own. Not even I can anything to help, but watch, and wait to see what could happen. Comprehend? Decent you are . . .
And with that just as love that is love’s first snow-drop, virgin kiss. For we part now, but maybe meet again, soon?
And if you can, give a good time to laugh is any time you can, waste not of it. For it’s a sign you’re healing.
Once: more alone, but for the best in lines of traveling. For you know, it is not down in any map; true places never are. With that, I must keep going and finding what inner souls and the world have come to, in such a short time.
There will time to take a break, but really, a vacation is having nothing to do and all day to do it in. Another era, another stint . . .
Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time, and sadly as someone as me, it is something all I have. And; no one to share it with, but, really, who would want to?
It has temp me very much, as too soon having virtue is its own revenge, basing me in fine and bold colors, blinding me, just as them of heaven, hell, and limbo in their daily lives. How I want that change, and soon, is all I can do. I have to keep moving.
Watching as the humans, do many things, simple, but strange. Wanting: to speak nothing but quiet words. Letting me neither known, that you not need to nor . . . please do not put your faith in what statistics say until you have carefully considered what they do not say. Or become what I am, and what I am not.
Watching . . . them, unlike me, able to move, not gracefully, but not enough real. If people were meant to pop out of bed; we’d all sleep in toasters. And these slices of bread sooner flop down in defeat, than go far.
Spending aimlessly of the green papers, with no care . . . people will buy anything that is one to a customer, mostly for that aims to become same than different.
We are all primary numbers divisible only by ourselves, and even then, we become so small. Pitiful really . . . but very true . . .
. . . That even to have great poets there must be great audiences too . . . yet too lacking to last . . .
Oh little humans, hear it please, yes, we love peace, but we are not willing to take wounds for it, as we are for war . . . it may be your way, but not mine!
