I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
-- Percy Bysshe Shelley
The engineers and the queens and kings said: humans of the digital age, rejoice! Never we shall have to suffer the ill fortune of shit RAM, shit memory, shit performance again like our forebears did. Pixels runneth over in our HD cups.
But we living ghosts haunt the wreckage and remember the days when these palaces stood resplendent, remembered the heavy silk curtains and immaculate marble staircases. We hear echos in the halls and recall the warmth of crowds.
And so in a futile attempt to perhaps snatch back the past, I challenge us ghosts to coalesce and reminisce together. Paint us a picture of the olden days. We still have time yet.
EDIT: extended jam because of the virus shaking it all up.
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