Because this item is also an exquisitely designed sculptural artifact, it cannot be reproduced. It will only increase in value.
We aren't due back for a spell. Pull up a seat and I'll tell you about a dream I had last night. We'll wear out the fire and let the stars crowd in, let the wind get colder.
In the dream, a creature was being cataloged by some network sponsor, a wetware design of unknown origin, a braintrust, an overdeveloped inorganic component of a higher structural entity outwith normal operating parameters, an Archon of the sort documented in Apocryphal texts.
The creature being cataloged was itself both organic and technological in construction. Dream amnesia deters proper description; the creature was at once like a dinosaur and the most complex cyborg you could imagine.
Solemnly baptized by the wetnurse chitin-cloth nuns of a collective backwash cult contingent stationed in the Orphanage of Damp Chains, this beast was integrated seamlessly into what appeared to be a futuristic toilet with an immense lidless eyeball bulging from the bowl.
Blades and silver sparkling nanotech filaments waved in an artificial breeze around the toilet and dinosaur as wavering plasma screens blinked red and blue for the audience for whom this creature was being cataloged, unseen and unheard but nonetheless interacting through a psychic rapport with the aforementioned Archon from a location referred to by top officials as the Nexus Fiber, a place nestled in the hierarchy of Angels between the (secret and forbidden) eighth and ninth day of the week, otherwise referred to as the eleventeenth subterfuge of all cash prize spambots, in toto, verbatim, pro bono, quid pro quo.
We aren't due back for a spell. Pull up a seat and I'll tell you about a dream I had last night. We'll wear out the fire and let the stars crowd in, let the wind get colder.
In the dream, a creature was being cataloged by some network sponsor, a wetware design of unknown origin, a braintrust, an overdeveloped inorganic component of a higher structural entity outwith normal operating parameters, an Archon of the sort documented in Apocryphal texts.
The creature being cataloged was itself both organic and technological in construction. Dream amnesia deters proper description; the creature was at once like a dinosaur and the most complex cyborg you could imagine.
Solemnly baptized by the wetnurse chitin-cloth nuns of a collective backwash cult contingent stationed in the Orphanage of Damp Chains, this beast was integrated seamlessly into what appeared to be a futuristic toilet with an immense lidless eyeball bulging from the bowl.
Blades and silver sparkling nanotech filaments waved in an artificial breeze around the toilet and dinosaur as wavering plasma screens blinked red and blue for the audience for whom this creature was being cataloged, unseen and unheard but nonetheless interacting through a psychic rapport with the aforementioned Archon from a location referred to by top officials as the Nexus Fiber, a place nestled in the hierarchy of Angels between the (secret and forbidden) eighth and ninth day of the week, otherwise referred to as the eleventeenth subterfuge of all cash prize spambots, in toto, verbatim, pro bono, quid pro quo.
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