A mind belongs to nothing but itself,
Constrained in the brain's soft kilogram,
Is all that anger and desire,
The million identifying marks of us,
Coded, unencryptable and unknowable.
Broadcast the bits of a single thought,
From Orfordness to the whole world,
Error-Corrected, CRCed, bound to arrive,
Complete and clean, bounced off Heaviside,
Brought back to earth in sparking coils.
It is a perfect shot, slippy and hyperbolic,
Heard around a great circle, to duplicate,
In Petabytes and Exabytes, powers unbounded,
Deep in the Woomera storage bunkers,
Becoming the buried Vaults for a copied idea.,
But still all is chaos, stilled and random,
A dead, dissected process, cut from us,
Like a lost essay, pulped and burned,
Bulked up with all the wasted analysis,
A nothing without its grey matrix.
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