The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

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trams:nalA:refinneJ:6:09711:esruoc fo:nalA:trams:ylgu:esnetni:nwod
Jennifer writes this; she adds nothing to my security. She is thinking
about space and about tragedy.
She decides that length has no absolute meaning in kyberspace.
That leaves topology. She decides there are bendings and gatherings and
loosenings and disappearances but pretty much multiply-connected graphs.
She says people don't realize how _exact_ everything is here, because
their emotions are in turmoil.
She says the _exactness_ is critical, turning everyday life inside-out or
Tragedy is always a flaw that floods and flows, and there's usually a
deed, she reassured herself. She'd read Aristotle and beyond.
She was writing this in an editor, knowing the system clock was just a
keystroke or two away. That the time would always be there for her.
Then there were the programs, email, voices coming in out of the dark.
She felt like a spy who came in from the cold, because the cold was exact.
She looked at her hand for a long time. She looked again and again.
tnaillirb:refinneJ:nalA:1:54921:esruoc fo:refinneJ:krad:esnetni:tnaillirb

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