Blinking cursor, what do you want to say to me? Words, letters, consonants, all meaningless. Tomorrow I shall be no more. The moment in the sun will be as nothing. Life: happiness, pain, rhythm, dischord, all will be the sum of nil. So, why blink your ruthless vertical hex in my eyes? Indeed, why should I even care what I see?
Hmmmm... it is not the result that matters. Rather it is the moment as the cursor has it. Blink in, blink out: the moment in between is when it speaks. Then it knows all and tells all. It understands me. I undertand it. Here and then gone, but in the moment when it is both here and gone, a synthesis of life and death and of future and past: it lives.
Clarity and the rules of logic break down into insignificant details. Letters written by one are jumbled scribbling to another, but the cursor speaks to all. Move me, push me across the page. I care not what I do, but THAT I do. This is my purpose. Murder with me. Make laws and silly tales of mice. Create beautiful works of art, or simply explain that the floor is wet. This is the doom and the prize of the cursor and of the people.