The universe is in my room.

There is an engineer on hand downstairs. Sometimes, out of bitterness, in over hearing the ill beeps of hardware call out from the heavens, he visits.

The electronic screams, raising green pixelated pins, spreading across the side of the head, within the drum, to the fingertips, to the heart, resonating in nostalgia, revisited in converstation, what does is it ask for? Without an answer, It spreads across the airwaves infecting the ear drums.

Sometimes humble bass emerges. The heavy sound of the Boeing for instance. And it could almost comfort us, as we sit and watch out the window, the sands of China melt in the contours of forks, spraying hot blindness, dry nothing, searching across the desert. It's a river of it's own, you cannot hold water without glass.

Into the trees of an oasis, the wooden bronchi reach out to drink the sun.

What patterns then, could there be in the firmly carpeted hallway beyond?

Quick steps of the engineer. Door slammed definetly, you can hear a full click of the lock. The mechanism still works. How long will the mechanism work? He opens the door, with a bleached forehead. Underground for the last ten years, he scouts for fault in the heavens.

You will not say, "What's the problem son?"

Because without hesitations, more work can be done.