Caught in the realm of a far greater society,
she would never taste true love on earth,
so she would have to travel.
Samsungs sorrow was held somewhere deep
within her forgotten past.
She fretted over the little things
she never got to do
and lost herself in replaying
every single angle.
Endless nights of tossing and turning
and revisiting feelings
through her subconscious left her lost to panic,
alone and in the dark.
She could hardly ever make out a discernable song
but none the less it was played,
by a man four billion light years away,
who she would never actually know.
From head to toe electrified,
and sanctified by reason
the ever knowing thought bot senses
wrinkles in that fabric that we knitted.
Call the tailor and get him sewing
for mans to good to be ****.
And there we leave the nameless patterns
of neural activity sufficiently spoken for.