Tesla left on a Thursday.
At least he left the living,
we found him sprawled out on the hotel floor.
Stochastic writing patterns
drawn halfway through the notebook
made up a sequence that I had seen before.

It said we breathe in the static
and sleep through the noise.
Our lives automatic
and solitude destroys it.
Hear the universe calling, see the world as hostile
so I think that you should stay for a while.

Ada left on a Saturday and
just as she slipped away,
we found her motionless-- she died in her sleep.
Her token to the living,
relentless unforgiving.
A number sequence only halfway complete.

These are the days salvation,
a little hesitation.
These are the days where every person like electrons can flow.
These are the day's locations
of pure line computations.
Raise up your own antenna,
raise up antenna tonight.

We breathe in the static
and sleep through the noise.
Our lives automatic
and solitude destroys it.
Hear the universe calling, see the world as hostile
so I think that you should stay for a while.

Now there’s no finite number
of all the combinations
of letters I could write on back of this card.
And there’s no single pathway
to raise a real number
to yield a current and illuminate my yard.

Crank out the brass schematic
secured in central static.
Ada and Tesla and the now precomplete.
For purgatory is abating
for those communicating.
The little bit of liminal where the unfinished meet.

And so we breathe in the static
and sleep through the noise.
Our lives automatic
and solitude destroys it.
Hear the universe calling, see the world as hostile
so I think that you should stay.