small clouds form out of thin air, like magic. the diminishing space between the weightless fluid produces grey haze, swirling elegantly. the smoke collapses and condenses, collapses, condenses, getting smaller and brighter, smaller, brighter... until the scorching hot white ball is received by full, protruding lips.
reverse.
the system frantically searches file cabinets, extracting files and reading them -- scanning them -- incinerating most when finished but hiding a few. those few are unwillingly recovered later, when grazed green is transformed into cotton clouds. organic machine.
think.
things desperately hidden cannot stay covered. that which is seen cannot be unseen and that which is done cannot be undone. the mission: prove myself wrong.
go.
digging this. Wanting to be able to pen this myself.
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