99 Flake – Rick Pearson

August 19, 2026

i.

Into 99, magic machine—smell of polystyrene, vacuumed sterile bags, cheap plastic white wires, thick black tubing tendrils—vision augmented.

The music makers, dreamers of dreams, invisible hand dictating virtual war, concrete playground visions exempt from mass, close to purpose.

Analog-digital borderline with deeper understanding of pixelated faces than pore-deep weathered blemishes of unfeeling sheeple horde abhorred whirring copper cogs displayed for all to see.
No one listens no one hears electric screams—so much loss reclaimed by baby fingers sliding over keyboard in system shock space searching the last dreamers.

Father, father, where do we go? You—you me—we are here on screen, false page and pen, spinning silverfish discs through windows, blinking cursor of anticipation—the dreamer, you the dream.

ii.

Concrete blinking tears display soulless Proustian father dreams that repurpose 99 cinematic spores with a flake into space phantoms pulsing for her porcelain smile in a still from last pixelated war. Nomadic mother dictating virtual beauty of unfeeling dreamer love world spinning borderline in a vision.

Close vacuumed cinema, monumental white creature of polystyrene, swinging doors and whirring plastic windows where conspiracies deepen, screens blemish, dampen digital playground screams of the weathered sister, a sterile pore page idol of invisible electric masturbation. Spidering spurts of neon system realities, forests of feeling, tendril-electric hands on evolving faces. Forever wiry queen overseeing dimensions—she the magic shock machine looking through doorways for demons.

iii.

1999 returning—now far older than you on your way but having never met and never to meet then and again, forever a moment in the cinema momentary, coming out from behind the curtain, bringing slick tears of awe in a sleek black dress, still a queen, the stage your world, with that smile you wore before on your knees in the forest, a humble servant begging for help. Never change beautiful creature I could never hope to have through time, place, in dreams still speaking your name, mother, sister, so she, lost idol of devotion.