When their hands became as terminal as light, their actions were still focused and so our pools of vision could gaze upon them. The blurs of their designs were as crystal, and the dirty thoughts were washed away. When the oceans of hell were lain upon us, only the their own lights were the key. You shone, and tore holes in your own sea. When its blue, why does it glisten in green and dicipate? What is this sky by itself other than characters?

 

Meanwhile, light blazes accross the twisted metal sea, and all aroundm, the dance of stillness. The sky torn from above, cracks the ground beneath, and our domicile is complete. Some freed their bodies of flesh and turned to steel, others became ethreal green. When the holy earth is torn apart, so too will each character of code. When the clouds once again welcome the tiny seed, then all shall feed. Some on animals, some on plants, others will feed on man, and he will feed upon steel. Our teeth, as sharp as minds, will once again be our necesity. The traitor will see his juicy steaks, the saviour will see his blue sky beyond any coded realm, the advocate will hold dominion over another world, the people will lay on the grass, beneath the sky, amongst the wind, and know once again the delights of centuries past.