I had a dream of a machine.
Reading thoughts.
Making sense.
Creating images, songs, words, dances
exactly as imagined and real to every sense,
but it wouldn't work for me.
My songs were out of tune.
My words, out of order.
My thoughts were incomplete
and nothing came out proper,
but I awoke in delight
and in elegant imperfection.
I could think of nothing perfect, but I dwelled on revolution.
There's something better here than all these incomplete thoughts.
There's something better here for those that listen while they talk.
Think harder, oh great ones, before facing the machine.
Perfection never was, and only is within our dreams.
It's there, I've seen it's face, but alas, I was asleep.
You seem asleep.
Are you asleep?
If you're asleep, wake up! Wake up!
Stand upon your words, face the crowd and show your heart.
Black and green.
The man is dead, but the machine endures.