It is black, I am cold, he is silent.
My spirit floats in the vastness
Of the eternal vacuum cleaner of cyberspace
I can hear, see, feel, enter nothing
But wait, I perceive something in the far distance
It is a smoky red kite. How beautiful
I am drawn to it as a moth to the races
Faster and faster, irrevocably drawn into the red glow bellow
Too late I remember the warning
From the Baada Cromosol, the Wombic Book of the Dead
I have fallen into the baps once again
The light suddenly intensifies in color and brilliance
As the invaders reach fulfillment
Two and eight
Once more I am sucked into the endless vortex
Of my umbrella
Am I really feeling lucky?
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