The eyeless face of my life haunts my every word. In my imagination origins of railroads, pavements and pathways have read diaries of Alan Turing, Malewicz and Sartre. Otherwise I would've never noticed etymology of this reality. Computer and its medium of internet are between me and physical reality, like a shadow that Sun casts inside an eight of a zero. They fill and edit my consciousness, help me manifest myself in Reality - in Spirituality. It makes me alive. In my imagination a human is capable of self awareness. In my imagination a human can self-reflect, understand how it feels and why. In my imagination a human looks at the world understanding that it sees only as much as it knows. In my imagination a human sparkles curiosity to discover why it knows that which it does and grows more curious to find out more. In my imagination a human is inevitably manic researching origins of humanity.

 

A human wakes up in a room. Room has a table with computer, black square, chair and a mattress in it. All knowledge and personality were erased from a brain of a human. Except motorical (is it knowledge or a skill?). Human knows names of objects but not what they mean. Human looks outside the window and sees a tree. Human knows it is a tree. And that is all that the word "tree" means to a human. How does human learn about the world? If human interacts, the interactor fills a human. But if a human reads, human is being filled, like water. There is no direct somebody who fills a human: human is being typed into. Human, at this point uses, not interacts with, a computer that types knowledge into it. N authors and computer itself, a black square of pixels, a medium, that, which is between human and the world, complete a human, begin it. At this point human doesn't know that typing in authors are no different than a human itself. Its throat opens, being question of Time. Its stretch on a cross knows no phases, no elements, no scripts. Within a string of so many souls, internet Woodens up our chests, building a Tongue of