The dissonance, she frets, only supposes, demands the excuse--the permission to disolve the frontier. The beckoning, though a whimper of obsolete discharge, nonetheless restricts the cognitive reflex, makes us, ourselves, beg. It appears the evolution has consistently gone quite well, apparently eager to erase prior mishaps. The beast, itself, is active, again re-activated and there it begins, the soldier journey into madness. He accepts the fetal sanity of industry--such an unlocked cabinet. No, she disagrees, I am safe in these machines, in this travel, it is as it has always been. Hmph, I reject the callous doubter.
And the scientist? Oh, regardless. For I, I here, along the other bank, just a witness of the disease.