Probable madness confronted,
In the depths of ancient domes,
Entombed on metal gratings to
The quiet flicker of pages and some distant steps.

Shader dreams,
Like hot wax poured,
Folded at the seams,
As it pools on my screen,
It hardens as I deem,
Conceived by a script,
Hailing from numbers and machines...

I sit in another world,
The ground is neon,
The sky pulses rhythmic.