This an iZombie... there are many, many like her. There is no way to kill them. You can only cling to your own technology and pray.



Spring comes to the valley,
But snow lingers on this peak.
Where long ago you held me,
Then left me here to freeze.

And while outside I am frozen,
My heartbeat's slow and sure.
This is only hibernation.
I will return once more.

The valley shall hear my song;
And the rivers flowing deep,
As someday I'll flow swiftly down -
As melted snow beneath your feet.



"“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.” - Henry David Thoreau

All I want is to taste the sweetness of the honeysuckle;
to draw bitterness and regret from the howling north winds;
to find reflection in the stillness of fallen snow;
to find exultation in the freshness of each spring and quiet peace in the humming, buzzing, stifling summer;
to sing with voices rustling like the wind through a field of tall, uncut timothy grass in the autumn;
to make music full of mystery, somehow larger than the instruments or the instrumentalist, like those of the cricket or of the peeping frog;
to craft melodies like bird-songs of the mourning dove, the lonesome owls, whip-poor-wills and nightingale;
to feel the rhythms of the plodding oxen, the fleeting deer, the galloping horse, the clanging, rattling, of bones, earth and stones;
to roar like an whirlwind, tearing down walls which stubborn men have erected;
to sigh like an ocean, taking and giving life to and from the Earth;
to flow like the currents of the deep, through foreign yet strangely familiar ports, changing shape, ever true to my natural direction;
to groan like a deep-rooted oak weathering every storm, to spread roots broad reaching like the willow, to tap and taste of the Earth's inner warmth like an ancient pine;
to accept death and life resurrected, like the prairie after a fire;
to shake and heave up the immovable parts of my heart with earthquakes and lava flowing from my soul...

But all I know is silence on these streets; stillness and cold shrouded light - as if I were dwelling on the ocean floor, far beneath the Arctic floes. I hear engines and brakes, doors and windows opening and shutting, cursing and shouting, and the mutterings of perennial discontent and all is music many times removed from it's purest source. There is only insanity here in this prostrate Babel; only humanity lost, and I wandering among them - I am no different.