Everybody publishes. The dream has come true, to say it and reach further than my voice would ever reach, futher than my feet would ever carry. Write. To capture the imagination of a ten thousand men. With what? Time passes. With what? Groping for the idea. A dark shadow moves in the murky darkness. The black dragon uncoils ever so slowly. What will I write? Think! Deliberately scratch the glyphs into the stone, see the pixel glow faint.
Remember the simle foolish hopes in my diary? So long ago. Hidden messages and stupid questions. Checkboxes and broken hearts. Remeber the first forbidden book. What did you think the apocrypha looked like? Did you imagine the dust? The muffled footsteps in the cellar? Did you see the phosphor burning at night?
Everybody publishes, now! Ten thousand little fingers keep tapping on keyboards. Ten thousand servers guard the pages in their vaults. The history of a generation is getting lost in the net. Somewhere between them and their readers, things get lost.
Remember the first web pages you tried to take offline? There are caches everywhere. They are using your pages in historical collections, did you know that? What the hell did you write? What did I write?
Help me now, my love, for I am dry and my eyes are dark. Help me now for I cannot see. The pen will not move. If you read to much, you will have no space for anything else. And yet the phosphor dances.
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