Contemplations arise, the future of the big scribble, of writing. Conventional, classical clashes with the mortal coil.
Some characters though, some characters, come to life! Mary Shelly's monsters of the mind. Let them grow I suppose.
From what single celled neurone flashings did these derivative derivations divide? Millions cubed played out their three dimensions. Paved paths followed, and followed once more recurring, a little to the left, a little to the right, branchings towards a perfection they imagine themselves to be.
And here they are to haunt me.
What ghosts are these?