Where the dermis meets the road

Ever since I discovered, as a small child, that there was a means of transportation where in people assimilated the power of a car and the design of a bicycle, I have been in love. Envy gripped me every time I would catch a fleeting glimpse of those beautiful machines and the ease with which they navigated the roads, less riding on top of the pavement and more gliding just above it. They always appeared, to me, to be pulled in tow by some invisible thread, all of their movements seeming  to lead inexorably into one and other, almost as if it were riding on a smoothly oiled track of it's own devising.
The often grungy and portly fellows with their leathery women, almost always the norm, riding on my most envied machines, always left a pretty awful taste mouth. They coveted their bikes as trophies, which isn't wrong in the least, but I did not view them in the same fashion. To me the motorcycles were a companion, much more personable than a car or truck,  often four to five times your own size, and much more versatile than a wimpy bicycle... who want's to have to expend their own effort to locomote? To see these old washed up alcoholics riding on their earth-rendingly loud noise machines just kind of irritated me. It's like Chihuahuas... you've taken one of the most humble and lasting bonds an human can make with something other than another human, and bastardized it, Adorned it to the point of gaudiness. There's a simply connection, that when made, proves all the more satisfying than they and their 15,000$ two wheeled land boat, equip with mobile cappuccino maker and a comfy fireplace, can understand.
It's the truly one on one experience that the motorcycle allows you to have with your travel that really appeals to me. The handlebars acting as a secondary steering device to that of your own body weight, each movement of your hands and feet directly effecting brakes and clutch, and the subtle differences in the texture of the road , all combining to make it an immersive and visceral experience for the rider. Or... at least, that's what I assume it's like, I've never ridden one! Soon enough though!
I have taken this bull by its goddamn horns and already gotten my Motorcycle learners permit, now the last piece of the cog (and arguably the biggest) just needs to fall into place... I need to get a bike.

My new mattress is filled with sin

I can't move, or, to be more honest with you, I don't want to move. I've been paralyzed and in no localized manner, my friends. This paralysis is encompasses both body and mind, extends from the tallest hair on my head to the very tip of my big toe nail. It is due to no poisonous plant nor any venomous insect or lizard. I have not suffered an ill fated fall or a cataclysmic car crash, no trauma or illness has occurred, I have simply bought a new mattress and it is possibly the best decision I've ever made.
 I cannot sustain my motivations anymore, all I long to do, day in, day out, is relax on this glorious slice of heaven. If Zeus had a bed, this would be it, and all the other gods of mount Olympus would conspire to kill him and steal away his glorious bed. They would all obviously fail though, Zeus would be far to well rested after a night of uninterrupted, restive, recuperative sleep, to be overwhelmed by such minor deities.
 Like Rip Van Winkle, I rise every day, feeling as if I've just slept the century away! I peek cautiously out of my window each morning, wondering if i'll catch my first glimpse of a smooth, egg-shaped hover car climbing into the air past one of the thousands of glittering towers of metal, or maybe be horrified by an arid landscape, scarred and torn by years of warfare which I apparently slept soundly through. No prophetic vision of the future ever greets me. I, contrary to this impossibly rejuvenated feeling, only slept my standard six to eight hours.
These last few nights of glorious slumber have opened my eyes to the importance of quality relaxation and rest. It is not something that can be properly explained unless you have experienced the difference between the two. This extends past the just having a good mattress and into all aspects of life. "Don't act so taxed, slow down, relax, don't be wound up so tight" good words to keep in mind, because no situation has ever been improved by stress and worry and no person is ever at their optimal when worn thin by either of these forces. So join me, my friends, and kick of your tightly laced shoes, remove those old worn socks, and feel the air caress your bare feet. Focus on the present, removing yourself from past guilts and future obligations.
My body has needed this, now Ill just have to let my mind learn to follow.

Dogs V.s. Robots: Rise of the Obedient

Suggestions welcome!



Pounding through the undergrowth towards the first slice of sun plateauing over the hills in the distance, trying desperately to make up ground. The fiery sliver of light marked the dawn, one that would find the those retched machines simulated fury once they found out what Deogie had managed to pilfer while they slept their electric sleep. No time though, for him to pause and revel in his success, in his spirited escape from that menacing compound he had tripped an alarm and it  wouldn't be long before they were trailing him. Robots, androids, cyborgs, machines... just gears and metal for all he cared. His mission only required that he transport this unwieldy grail, then he'd be off the list till the next full moon. That damn list cast a indomitable shadow over what was left of his meager life since the Masters disappeared. Glancing ahead on the trail he spotted his carefully camouflaged escape root further up, "Lets see the bastards try and follow me through here" he spat, turning  into the ferocious looking thorn bramble to his left. The briers immediately tearing through the soft skin on his muzzle as he plunged into the thicket.  Beads of hot, sticky blood began to slide into the cracks of his lips, the iron tang quickly diffusing through his entire mouth, the taste arousing his senses. Just a mile or two more of this hell and he'd be safely out of their range. That was one advantage that his kin had over those monsters, they were free to roam over whatever land they could put under their roaming paws, their four legs beating out the rhythm of the pack. Leashes were no longer for his kind to bear. An abrupt jerk reminded him of the burden bound behind him that had been slowing his pace. Now the twisted knots of thorns were tightening around him and proving to be a bigger barrier than he had thought, progress would be slow, but this route would allow him to bypass the trees. A tendril of terror began creeping from his tail slowly up his spine just at the thought of those horrors, Dog knows you didn't want to venture into the bots twisted versions of a forests.
They claim to be recreating utopia for when the humans return, and I'm sure in their minds they were succeeding, but those horrid pillars only stood to mock the beauty of those they are modeled after. A trunk, if you can call it that, perfectly smooth accept for the wart-like sensory nodes placed at distance, from top to bottom. The monolith rises up from the barren earth about 10 danes high to intersect, at its peak, a flurry of florescent green leaves, lacking in any sort of organic design. Instead they were the shape of those metal demons teeth, angular razors made for slicing and cutting. Venture to close to one of its hundreds of electric eyes and be ready to run, or part with your hide. Deogie had learned this lesson all to well on his last suicide run, the scars running from scalp to hind flank were the signatures of those unflinching wards. In a way though, it was almost endearing to see their painstaking effort in melding these "Trees" to be both a garden for their masters and sentry against their foes, but there was a intangible subtlety the mighty old ones held that these monsters can't even begin to imitate.
Shaking the thoughts of those deadly synthetic pylons from his mind, Deogie began the last few meters through the brier thicket. Once on the other side it was only a short dash to the perimeter where those bastards wouldn't venture, unless they dare to risk breaking the invisible thread that ties them umbilicaly to their hive mind. the king of the demons. A glimmer of blazing sunlight cut like a machete through the gloomy thicket, urging Deogie on, with one explosive push of his back legs he found himself suddenly released from the clawing grip of the bramble. A sense of relief washed over him as struggled free, he laid for a short while, covered in blood and bits of stubborn brier tangled in his coat, panting in an effort to regain his breath. "Just a throw of a bone from here" he uttered reassuringly to himself, and as he stood to walk away he realized that the evil mess of cruel vegetation behind him has yet to relinquish its grip on his bulky, cumbersome, plunder. What his alphas of the clan wanted with this glorified, glittering dog bowl, he could only guess, tradition had become so very important to them as their situation deteriorated. Wrenching at the lashings that bound the trophy to himself, Deogie tried desperately to free the troublesome object. After several fruitless minutes, feeling overwhelmed fatigue, he sat to rest, cursing the damned anchor that was going to end up being his tombstone. He aimed a swift kick at the nuisance out of frustration and it responded by sounding a high-pitched ring peeling out of it's dome shaped top, racing through the forest, followed immediately, like the bells eerie echo by the smooth, oiled sounds of mechanical limbs coming to life.