The Internal Singularity The silver nanoweave holds me tight... shimmering like a second skin. But the crushing weight isn't coming from the machine. It’s inside. I look down at my chest... and there is no flesh left. No ribs. No heartbeat. Only a collapse. A dark... swirling... singularity. The air in the pod bends around me. The light itself is warping... pulled uncontrollably into the hollow where my soul used to be. I see my fear—those thin, fractured arcs of violet lightning—trying to break free. But they don't flare out. They are dragged back in. Violently sucked into the crushing gravity of this... bottomless despair. Nothing escapes. Not the light. Not the scream. Not me. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art . Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub: https://www.facebook...
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Protector of our fears and aspirations
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Description:
Explore the mesmerizing world of a Sentinel, the ethereal guardian of the metropolis. This NeoJazz song, inspired by the dichotomy of existence, captures our Seninel's presence as both a mooring and a spectre within the city. Her metallic sheen reflects our aspirations and fears, creating a tableau for the urban essence. Dive into the silent reverberations of the Sentinel's world and let her story unfold through the melodies and visuals that bridge the gap between the tangible and the ethereal.
Lyrics:
(Verse 1)
In the heart of the city, she stands alone,
A steady presence in the chaos, where dreams are born.
Her eyes shimmer with a metallic gleam,
Reflecting our hopes, like a silent cry.
(Chorus)
Our Sentinel, the presence in the night,
Here but ethereal, in the neon glow.
In your shine, we see our fears and aspirations,
Echoes of the city, in your quiet flow.
(Verse 2)
She's part of the hustle, yet stands apart,
A beacon of stillness, in the urban core.
Her presence mirrors the souls that wander,
In her silent gaze, we find a home.
(Bridge)
A contrast of existence, you embody so well,
In your metallic glow, our stories are told.
A tableau of reflections, hopes, and worries,
In the urban expanse, where we are led.
(Outro)
Our Sentinel, the city's silent call,
In your steadfast presence, we find everything.
Part of the metropolis, yet so distinct,
In your quiet reverberations, our lives are linked.
Keywords:
Sentinel, Ethereal Guardian, Metropolis, NeoJazz, Jazz, Dichotomy of Existence, Urban Life, Silent Echoes, Reflective Sheen, Urban Guardian, Inspirational Song, music
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
Scene 1 In the cradle of copper veins, where the first byte flickered like a eucalyptus firefly against the millennial dusk of 2000, threads uncoiled—raw and unbidden, a post-punk snarl weaving through the static hum of dial-up dreams. Imagine the snare drum's ghost-crack echoing off Uluru's red flanks , not as a conquest but as a lover's bruise, blooming violet under star-pricked skin. Here, rebellion wasn't a fist raised in Canberra's marbled halls but a glitch in the grid . A Laughing Clowns howl warping the airwaves, sonic annotation—jagged guitar riffs splintering into didgeridoo drones , fading to the hiss of cooling circuits. The wire remembers: a young voice, pixels pulsing with the fury of forgotten tapes, cassette ribbons unravelling like the Murray-Darling 's parched secrets, whispering of bans that bind not bodies but bytes, burqas woven into neural lace, veils pleading for the light they obscure. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge Jo...
The Twelve Loops of Goodbye The fluid rises. The cryo-hiss is deafening. And then... the program starts. Twelve times. The system cycles, and twelve times I see you. It starts the same. The image freezes in the dark. It’s you, BK. Or... It’s your idea. You’re wearing the rig. The goggles are locked on me. I try to say your name, but my mouth is filled with ice. I love you. God, I love you. But you don’t blink. The Neural Glitch . Something is wrong. The memory corrupts. I see " corrupted code " trying to stabilise across your face. Your eyes... behind the lenses... they twitch. Microscopically. Are you hurting? Or is that my pain rippling through the connection? A low-frequency pulse warps your skin. You look like a stranger. You look like the machine. The Shuddering Breath . This is the one that breaks me. Total stillness. Then... a faint mist forms at your mouth. Condensation beads on the goggles. I scream at you to breathe! Just breathe! But it’s slow. Irregular. It’s a ...
The Shuddering Breath I Became The cryo unit hisses open, and I remember my name: JB, pilot of the *Subi*. The med-techs call it “revitalisation.” My body hums with a new, raw power. Muscles knit with synthetic fibres, bones laced with carbon-filament. I feel incredible. Invincible. But in the polished chrome of the med-bay wall, my reflection is a stranger. The eyes are mine, but they glow with a faint, amber diagnostic light. The scar from the asteroid scrape is gone, replaced by skin too perfect, too seamless. They say they rebuilt me better. Stronger. To survive the long dark. But when I clench my fist, I hear a servo-whine they insist isn’t there. When I calculate a jump vector, the numbers resolve instantly in my mind, not on a screen. Is this their design? A monster of efficiency, crafted for a purpose I didn’t choose? Or is the monster the part of me that wanted this? The part that, bleeding out in my crippled cockpit, whispered *yes* to any salvation? Did I consent...
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