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Michael considered fate at 05:16   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment
Hope is a four letter word. Fiction is seven, and we're lucky if that's what concerns us; novels, movies, short stories, and celebrities' lies (I mean lives). Drive is five, somewhere inbetween but leaning towards fate's more dreamy, fantastical cousin, that four letter word; hope. I, the singular, one and only. Together, with hope, it's five. I hope. The drive. We? More fiction than function, not nearly narrow enough margins for mere men. We hope. Collectively, we hope like hundreds of hungry human hearts humming desperately for defibrillators; desperately; doomed. All of us demanding the very last available one, the machine, to jump start our jumbled pile of person parts - pick me - I as in individual - I as in independent - I as in I don't know how other people exist - I as in I hope.


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Check out heroecs, the robotics team competition website of my old supervisor's daughter. Fun stuff!
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