Reade Mccardell You've Wanted To Write A Cyberpunk Novel
You've wanted to write a cyberpunk novel for quite a time
You've wanted to regale
You've wanted to write a cyberpunk novel for quite a time
You've wanted to regale
You've wanted to describe the conveyor ways in the airports and the colors of the lights they pass under (orange, red, chartreuse); the lights' reflections in the protagonist's visor as he conveyors by
You've wanted to write a cyberpunk novel for quite a time
[Instrumental Section]
Our hero is tuning his leyanther patiently when the lights go out
A piston-head's dispatched
She arrives shortly thereafter and he leads her to the panels
They see by the light of her brow-glow
She reads the maintenance log
She unbuttons her blouse and removes her left breast
The conrod is a drill
He thanks her and sends her on her way with a pear-drive
It isn't yet eight
You've wanted to write a cyberpunk novel for quite a time
You've wanted to write a cyberpunk novel for quite a time
Glornly can't be expected to drink a quart
Glornly can't be expected to drink
She had her stomach replaced with a bio-cosmetic glow-sac
Our hero is working on an opera in which the singers (rotund and seasoned) take on the roles of infants clad in diapers, projecting infantile thoughts
The work is atonal and rhythmically complex
He's concerned with making it jarring and real, not just lifeless gimmick
He breaths in some filtered air on the veranda, a bus goes by
Stretches his arms above his head and, with one hand, feels the ribs on the glove of the other
He yawns and smiles contentedly as the fog lid closes, sealing the block for the night
You've wanted to write a cyberpunk novel for quite a time
You've wanted to write a cyberpunk novel for quite a time