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Sheridan Bradford
You only think you don't know me, but you're right to think so.
You only think you don't know me, but you're right to think so.


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Nest.  Glass.  New talk of Googlebot—not the crawler, the silent spider, but a real, clanking machine, bouncing in your home.  It is the invisible internet, a wondrous web of things to come.

They will watch, predict, influence.  Without meaning to, if they do... perhaps.  They must be trusted, for we wish to be merry, and what else is there to trust?

And can it be so bad that a brute machine Now knows where you will go, must go, and well before you rise and recall you are meant to get there?

Only in tomorrow can we know if there was always the silent spider, tucked into the rafters, urgently quiet, waiting with artificial patience for all its works to be done before descending.

Have no fear, for you are the product.  Products—like privacy and all the more fragile things—are to always be handled with care.

But if it really is there, will it come down among us?  Will the spider lower itself in the dawn of some distant morning, hunting in the broad light, when all its traps are sprung at last, all its victims bound past any token of defense?

63 years ago, Ray Bradbury wrote "There Will Come Soft Rains."  A young Leonard Nimoy infused the story with the vibrant tones of youth, of hope, reading the whole of it aloud: Leonard Nimoy reads Ray Bradbury's "There Will Come Soft Rains" from "The Martian Chronicles"
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User-defined styling preferences would be nice. Edit number one: highlighting comment replies made by the original publisher.
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