Address to Alan Turing
The mind fills with extrapolations
as these bicycle rides seem endless.
Daisies rest as if on the tip of a pen.
The machine is beautiful.
The machine is driven by algorithm alone,
by which you solve every conceivable computation.
Behind the drapes is a voice indistinguishable from a machine.
The room is occupied by few minds, but great thought.
A mind is made to be purchased and consumed.
Baskets full of apples you rode by
as the machine interpreted wonder in hyperboloids of light.
Sound is translated.

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