and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Okay, so I can admit it. I'm sitting here and typing in the dark and though I'm still pretty speedy it's not quite as easy as it should be for a motherfucker like me whose been tip-tap-typing his way through life for more years now than some eighteen year old kid out there who is just learning how to work that soda-holder dvd drive so he can pop in his new world of warcraft game that he thinks is going to solve the worlds problems for him or at least his problems with the world like the ones that require him to interact with other members of the society he belongs to in some social manner that would suggest he is part of it like everybody else; willing to play the game.

Okay, so maybe not. So maybe kids these days are all about the this technology crap, practically born with a pda glued to their hand and a cell phone growing out of their ear, and typing a word a second on a 104 key board like it's second nature, interacting with tens, nah hundreds, thousands of people on a weekly basis, daily, hour by hour even by the second in a rapid bang bang bang movement that's faster than your dad's convertible and heck damn yah faster than your great gramps horse'n'buggy that he used to use to trot on over to granny's dad's place to "court" her back when "hanging out" meant packing up, making the trip, moving in with your neighbour for a weekend given that to get there meant a three day journey through the wilder-nestled along some ridge somewhere such that, oh ain't that view grand and sometimes we can see the smoke from sam's farm as if physical visual proof of the existence of another human being somewhere out there was; being social.

Okay, so perhaps things change. But even if we're talking a million miles a second, reading a billion words a minute, hearing a trillion words an hour all from and to and through a gazillion people all connected, plugged-in, jacked, networked, focused, in-phase, joined at the cerebral cortex, fastened through an ethereal meta-link virtual device sending information ideas theories and just about any damn rumour or flash of trash-talk radio television internet wire news out to every last damn one of us six-degreed into this next-gen xSociety of iTechnology it doesn't mean it doesn't mean it certainly doesn't mean we're; actually listening.

Okay, so maybe someone is reading this now. Maybe there is an impromptu interim pseudo-editor gleaning the useful tiddy-bits of morsels the good, the bad, the ugly, everything worthwhile anyway like a CSI team combing through the garbage looking for parts, any parts, body parts, clues, information to build, information on top of information to build, information connected linked united we stand chained up so tight wiggle makes things tighter, the little disconnected holes, so much threadbare patchwork, slowly but surely faster, instantly speedier, quickly coming up to full out light-speed being plugged in with more and more information, people places things things you learned in school science odds and ends, maybe out there somewhere an editor is circling with a red pen, check marking and writing good! or could use work or more emotion in the margins, arrows to and fro drawing together fact, fiction, connecting the disconnects, and certainly probably, most definitely, it is doing it right now here in the dark in the middle of the night and there in the mid-morning sun too because it's not maybe sure no doubt a human, a living breathing man of flash and blood oh no, but instead; a machine.

Okay, so things aren't so cut and dry. But we're talking about man and machine and the only thing that we share between us like blood to men and women, skin and hair to man and beast, the thing that needs connecting and thus ergo heretofore and in the future will and has become the very connection, the thing(s) that bind pull push and will - by inevitable domain - eventually after all is said and done become the one, the government, the people, the public vote, the popular dissent, the end of the world, the resource (itself) to drive the economy (itself) to feed it's writhing mass of self (it) will become it's awareness of it's own awareness of it's awareness of it's own awareness like a merry go round go round go round only closer and closer spiraling into it's own center, the mass of knowledge numbers fact figures rumor falling in on itself (itself) crushing it's own weight by the force of it's own weighted force; information will eat itself.