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deviantART, Do you support it? Let's think for a moment. Would you want your government to take your personal information without your knowledge? I definitely wouldn't want that. But there are some people who support that notion. The bill CISPA (Cyber Intelligence Sharing and Protection Act) would allow the government to do that very thing. Not fair, right? I would not support this bill even if I was paid a million bucks. But that may not be true for you guys though. Who knows maybe after you finish this essay you would actually support the bill, but maybe not. As I go through this essay I will explain my reasons for why I disagree with CISPA, along with examples/evidence. I will also be giving the view of the people who agree with CISPA. You probably would be thinking. "Wait a second, who would agree with CISPA?" Well you'll find that out around the end of this essay. So now moving onto the essay!
My first iss
KeywordsDearest NSA Analyst,
How and why you came to this, hunched in warm gang of wires, listening over the lip of your vile
coffee and staling pretzels you found vending from dogmatic and monotone architects that
salute the elevators in the second floor lobby, all for the terrible rustle of purpose, the digressive
labor of spark-eyed confederates conspiring to alter the paradigm, I do not wonder. I fear only
for what you’ll find in my ignorant missives and self-pitying dialogs, my parroting of paper rumors
propagating like a hungry empire of weeds in our facsimile of The Garden, predictable evidence of my
rampant absorption of the day’s official thought which you leave snowing across the network, pulling up
our strings so we all can dance alike, magnificent fools that flash through copper veins in the wrists of
the machine. I worry that despite all your efforts, you’ll be paid no indemnity against the outcome of
my confessions, my bouts of irrational exuberance and subsequ
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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