We All Fall Up

In motes we trust. Oh, moats. I don't think so, William G's peopled futures, that's now and tomorrow a cipher; not an Arabic numeral or figure, a code or nonentity, just empty. All the pretty mutations, my only hand over my heart and standing allegiance; they're all so much uglier than us in our old imagined skinsuits, and how much prettier for it? Much more beautiful. A better reptilian. That's where your mind always goes, and the false high, Lordship of the Weapon.