No-Lan

Quick strokes across the keyboard with grace and form his time has come again,
another late night binge on instruction and construction of worlds that only the great can comprehend.
A list of numbers and symbols mark his playing field; his weapon a cursor, flying majestically from line to tab to window to icon,
God in his own right creating motion and life out of nothing but the tips of his fingers.

He breathes in his work, his mind diluted with the brain of another.
A desk is all that separates him from this life and a connection to endless lines and strands of formations that create our technological landscape.
Yet he will own these monstrosities as he once owned himself, breaking into new ground night by night slaying the complexities changing and manipulating them to work with his rules.

Driven by passion, fuelled by a rectangular box filled with spices, clothed by well his pyjamas really.
He has conquered yet another obstacle and is still hungry.
Perusing his chatrooms his brain trying to produce a sentence that will depict the insight that he has gained.
Opens the window places his hands once more on the keyboard and types…..

 

 

ME.

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