Children of tomorrow shall listen
to
the Voice e m a n a ting
from
the
Web.
The Glorious Web.
They
shall always follow
the COMMANDS of
the
Web.
The Eternal Web.
For the Web is everything.
The Web is in
tricate.
The Web
is in
finite.
There
in
the
Web,
Time Itself is shivered
and its f r a g m e n t s
are hung
neatly
on
the
tiny
delicate
th
r
e
a
d
s
of
the
Web,
waiting
to be
ab sor bed
by the hapless victims
en
snared
by the Web,
stuck to
the glue
of
the
Web,
trapped in
the fabric of
the
Web,
born out of
the very
womb
of
the
Web.
They become parcels
of
the
Web,
decorative ornaments
alive,
conscious.
They
feed upon
the thoughts
and the voices
of
the
Web,
echoing
its susurrations,
endlessly.
E n d
l
e
s
s
l
y.
They are the very
conscience
of
the
Web,
the
conscious
ma ni fes ta tion
of
the
Web,
In spite of themselves,
in
spite of their erstwhile dreams.
They cling
to
the
Web.
They hug
the
Web.
They give their
very
souls
to
the
Web.
Such
is the Way
of
the
Web.
Welcome,
welcome
to
the
Web.