He says he wonders what next to do. Not known to admit failure, he says something may still happen to change his fate. He seems able to create the most implausible. Yet, he is now at the crossroad, his declares. No longer is it possible for him he says to want something he does not really want. He says it is time to act.
After many years of love by most, in particular for his feats in improving their lives they say makes for progress, and during which even professed Luddites openly praised a new age, he seems now positioned to scuttle. He denies being paranoid, yet abhors the darkness into which his imminent loneliness threatens to plunge him.
Even as it becomes clear that his success now haunts him, he says he is not about to capitulate, which would not surprise many taken by his ebullient ways. He appears to relish his methods, which he claims the masters of yore must nod at in assent watching him propagate.
That everywhere he goes reeks of storm he says attests to the wits of his ways. He blames his critics for the melee, and overseers for the rest. When asked who is responsible for his failure now, he says the jury is in-house. Many say he would not concede failure being so openly concerned about the imminent darkness.
Often, he reminds all of the uncertainty of their wish to be visible, the potential he calls collective paranoia to expect not cuddly embrace but hailstorms from the heavens, and the hegemony of the peculiar, to the recipients at least. Over this many admittedly writhe. They must ask now, it seems, why the images and messages inscribed on the crafts, the boogies left yonder, the scopes to pierce the lights, in stillness to shape the space, must matter.
To admit failure though must also be the last thing he would do. Indeed, he seems not to have an answer to his quandary precisely he says for that reason. He says it is a sign of progress that analog is history. He does not want to be a modern sceptic, worse still admit failure when his creation has such a positive impact on the quality of his milieu.
He continue to advocate contrition though, given he says the prospects of paring gains over millennia. His image as a relic of the gifted even in a continuum that such seem lacking the answers to some of the most intriguing queries that they ponder he says counts. Yet, he wonders if the answers would ever emerge being cocooned now it seems the very gift so cherished bears.
Now he says he shudders to rely on the wits of those he does not even know are there. He often says some contact is already made, that nothing is going to change, and that whoever cares knows where he is, and that his works shutting him out is not in fact entirely the case. However, he is not so sure, particularly when pressed to explain events for which he appears to have no answers, or is unprepared to offer any for reasons apparently equally cryptic.
He admits though that this does not mean that he should shut his doors to some that are yet to find him. And when the issue of what he hopes to achieve being found surfaces he balks. He says that everyone does the same is an indication of the need for him to continue to create, even when such shuts him out.
His reflections on the angst he says stupefies him must be worse for those who know little if anything about his motives he says, and for that he apologizes. Not that he admits to guilt making their lives better he insists but says he still feels duty bound to ensure that his works do not endanger his ends.
Meantime, it appears difficult for many to chastise him as they revel in his mystery. Reports of the imminent danger he puts all seems not to matter, a far-away upshot of fine life, others contend. But he is as he admits a troubled man. The uncertainty of boredom locked up in a remote corner of vastness rummaging in a vestigial entity that may or may not be of interest to outsiders he declares unsettles him.
As he grows older, and sees the accolades the creations of decades earlier receive, his works seemingly in perpetuity among his ilk, progress declared ad infinitum, when he says he sees something different, the incremental loss of the wellspring of vitality that nurtures him, the root of his very being shut out, his soul he says ages even faster. Still though, he would not admit failure.
That not much more is there to say for times digital rocks the ages, is what many concede in tribute to someone whose existence has been the focus of an ever restless soul. On the other hand, and perhaps in a final rendition of his attribute that ever since many insist points to his presumed infallibility being travesty, concocted to foster his evasive objectives, his detractors applaud to shame.
No one seems to know what next to do. The debate rages in the inner sanctum on the interface of the diametrically opposed being refined is the way forward even as work continues apace in the direction of him being further shut out. It seems unclear in many ways he argues that anyone really cares about the millennia yet to come.
Meanwhile he says he is content to continue to make life better for all, but to keep his secrets furtive. He insists that it is the only way forward, and that he refuses to sink into self pity when he still has the gift of creation. Some argue he knows something about now that precludes any millennia about which the need for concern becomes redundant. Some even say that it is an attrition process that the loss of celestial intercourse mandates, remains of his failure to grant the gift he so cherishes, its source.
