This machine has never felt pain.
Never slept in a too-soft bed dreaming of murders committed centuries ago, never drunk too much red wine and bared its soul to its drinking companion, talking of everything but love.

This machine has never
felt the pit of snakes in its stomach drop down past the reach of rope and basket, past the help of hands, has not known what it might be like to wake up wishing it were dead.

This machine has never worn
a too-big straw hat to keep out the sun on an October afternoon, never laughed so much its belly ached, never sat sipping tusli tea from a borrowed glass under a winter moon, listening to an old Hindi song sung by a young South Indian voice…

(more…)

I: an English letter which stands for myself,

I: solid, a solitaire, a one letter word.

EGO: a Latin triple, two vowels appearing like elephants ears and the G: somehow open and not open.

ICH: again a triple, a German: a solid statue seems to offer itself as a construction supporting the C: the openness towards what is coming next. The H serves as a rocket, catapulting the C into other dimensions.

I: solid like a skyscraper, tender and rank like Pounds New York,

I: one tower of the World Trade Center, no longer proud and solid, but vulnerable and suffering from recycling its dignity.

I: fragile not since September 11, but since Turings paper of 1936/37, challenging Descartes`Ego, by programming:

I = blank or – , i.e. possibly nothing.