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Don't tell meDon't tell me you don't want me to leave,
Or in your mind, I am already gone,
Although I stand in front of you.
Don't tell me you want me back,
Or in your mind, I was never with you.
Open your eyes,
And see me here now
Not PatSome people complain and make everything someone else's fault.
Some people are arrogant and condescending.
Some people forget to thank those who work behind the scenes to make sure everyone else can have fun.
Some people are too scared to live their dreams.
Some people never get the chance to race motorbikes at the Isle of Man GP and at Bathurst.
Some people are never fortunate enough to have a loving wife and two young sons.
Some people are lucky enough to survive a collision between their motorbike and a 4WD.
Some people are not meant to die.
Especially not Pat.
A Thought Experiment"Thank you for being part of this trial. My name's Stephen. We spoke on the phone."
We shook hands. Stephen continued.
"All you need to do as part of this experiment is to sit in this room and write a story on this computer. We will have an electrode attached to the back of your head which will be collecting data about your thoughts and recording it. You won't feel it at all - it won't hurt, and you won't know anything is happening. Do you have any questions?"
"What do you want me to write about?" I asked.
"Whatever you want," said Stephen.
"OK. And... what are you going to do with this data? With my thoughts?"
"Well, as you would have read in our privacy agreement, any personal data in your thoughts will be dealt with confidentially. By that, I mean, anything you yourself choose to have removed from any findings we might publish will be edited out. Is that OK?"
I thought about it for a s
The Postmaster GeneralI find myself thinking about the Postmaster General. When I was a kid, a young teenager, one of my many summer jobs was being a postman. I was part of the small army of teenage recruits that helped the post office to cope with the inflated workload of Christmas mail. Where I worked was just one of the small suburban post offices that used to dot the town. I think it later became a suburban branch of a bank, if I remember correctly, which in turn became a shop of some sort, as services retreated from suburbia and became consolidated in larger centres.
We teenage postmen needed only one qualification for the job; we needed to own a bicycle. We would arrive at the post office in the morning, to be handed leather satchels of letters that had been sorted by the Real Postmen at the crack of dawn. The satchels would be strapped to the handlebars of your bike. The Real Postmen were Men, in my teenage boy's eyes.
The story of my lifeLet me introduce my oldest ancestors, at the root of my family tree. They were a pair of hydrogen atoms. I can't remember their names, to my eternal shame. They lived in the core of a star which some say was over a billion years old. Theirs was a typical romance they met, they reacted, they fused and produced offspring. Their children included a deuterium and a helium atom, but of more import to my destiny was the little gamma ray they sired.
This little gamma ray, my father, had a short life, unfortunately. He was absorbed almost straight away in that ancient star's core, and gave birth to a son. Me. He named me Photon, after the Greek word for light, an act which always puzzled me, as this all happened a long time before there were any Greeks anywhere.
I packed my bags and bade my farewells, keen to embark on my life. I began the journey to the surface of the star. Thi
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More