“I don't want to be human! I want to see gamma rays! I want to hear X-rays! And I want to--I want to smell dark matter!”
”No Exit.” Battlestar Galactica.
Conjure up virgin hues. Break mined pigments. Minds need no canvas, third eyes paint in dream-rending rouge. Futile synapses pull at feed of empty input. Whirr and whine longingly. Thumb through Terran collarbones. Lick salt of green and dirt. Curse somaesthetics. Hum indigenous chords. Snap focus atmosphere above engrossing prose. Curse drum and hammer bones. Curse points of horizontal eccentricity, faded and filled. Faintly verge glowing depths. Faintly verge microbes. Faintly verge gamma rays. Faintly verge stratosphere. Faintly verge 100-kilohertz harmonies. Faintly verge chemical affinities. Faintly verge diluted molecules on air. Faintly verge your moon. Faintly verge your earth. Faintly verge your own.