Codewriter is oblivious to our reflection in one of his dozen mirrors.
“Can you see him?” asks Asian boy, snowflakes occasionally shorting out around them.
“Is he alright? Is that really him? I mean, right now?” One of our mutual acquaintences is equally as fascinated so I’ve brought him into this passage with me.
And she wonders while they look over an obnoxious shade of blonde bowed in mourning, if he could write a program for her brother,
because he has a virus
that reminds her
Few will be as understood as easily as a story from the very beginning, presented in friendly font with colorful templates that changed several times a year.
“He doesn’t get down on things the way that you and I do. He has always seemed to operate, spot on, and I’ve admired him for that ability to sort out what actually matters from the stuff that shouldn’t. You know, at one point I received so much data from him that I was able to rewire some very important things in this system.”
The Reverend continues to inquire, curious about the portal’s depiction of an uneasy Christmas Day.
“Good for you! But why is he upset, here? What’s the matter?”
With a faint smile she touches the glass, leaving an ISP print where pale hands are flipping through some photographs.
“He’s not really a robot.”
Therein always lies his biggest problem.