I can’t tell if this is ok. Screaming into the abyss is so soothing until you choose for the abyss to be something tangible. Like a computer. It’s more permanent. I feel like my screams and whispers become magnetized to this idea that I want them to live forever. That my words hold something I think deserve to be held by the mighty hands of what I picture to be a cold, silver clanking, bleeping and blipping database somewhere in the middle of rural Kentucky. I have no idea how the internet works lmfao. I don’t like that I can’t touch it. But when I imagine what it is, I see a big robot in an old, red farmhouse that somehow has never collapsed despite the way it sways in the wind. It seems like the most powerful things sway in the wind. There’s something so revering about giving in. The robot lies on its side with its palms glued together to be used as a pillow for it’s big square head. Its body swirled as much as metal can swirl into an ‘S’. A fetal position. I don’t know how it knows to lie in the fetal position. The internet lies in the cables that are akin to the robots veins. Running circles through its bodily maze of circuit boards, nuts, bolts, and technology you can’t comprehend. Maybe it scoured through articles on sleeping that lie within the websites in its blood and found this position to be the most suitable for it. There’s something very comforting in that. Like no matter how far technology takes us, there will always be our link to the natural. There will always be that innate love we have for our mother. I imagine the robot is big. Like the size of a blue whale or something that’s so big you look up size comparisons on google and are unbelievably shocked at how tiny you are in the world. That something so much bigger than you can even exist in such a plane. That something so big and significant just lies in a vacant farmhouse and sleeps. All day, every day, for years and years. With the internet flowing like cells being the only thing taking advantage of the ability to move. I feel like every new website entry, is a new cell being made to take care of the sleeping giant. A post a day keeps the doctors away. And I guess once it comes to that, my hope is that instead of just screaming into the abyss, instead of carrying trails of real human feeling into a deafening void of nothing, my screams can be computed into the cells that help that sleeping giant robot in the middle of rural Kentucky live just one more day. I bet it’s nice. Sleeping in that creaky farmhouse.