029
Patterns, patterns - such a predictable city. Gears in a clock. Like the sea, with the coming-then-goings, law-then-lawless, calm-then-storm. Cries for this and cries for that... law and lawless... waves in and waves out, Luna pulling like a sailor or she used to, on Earth-That-Was.
A recurring theme, no escape. Ren suan bu ru tian suan. The year churns on, wave by wave, ebbing forward into double digits. But then, the measurements are incorrect - octo is for eight. It carried the one, and then one again.
This is a system based on error, and logical conclusions can be calculated: preliminary data suggests the waves here are not as regular they seem. No calm-then-storm, only storm-then-tempest. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, rounded with a little sleep. And Miranda has lost her Ferdinand, and Prospero drowned his sorcery. And Ariel was never any help. Nothing we can do. Hard to hear warnings that are not soft. The tempest comes, a roar out of a growl.
For the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; and we are here as on a darkling plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night.
A recurring theme, no escape. Ren suan bu ru tian suan. The year churns on, wave by wave, ebbing forward into double digits. But then, the measurements are incorrect - octo is for eight. It carried the one, and then one again.
This is a system based on error, and logical conclusions can be calculated: preliminary data suggests the waves here are not as regular they seem. No calm-then-storm, only storm-then-tempest. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, rounded with a little sleep. And Miranda has lost her Ferdinand, and Prospero drowned his sorcery. And Ariel was never any help. Nothing we can do. Hard to hear warnings that are not soft. The tempest comes, a roar out of a growl.
For the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; and we are here as on a darkling plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night.