Dead angels speak to me sometimes. From Secondlife

Moments of clarity through bits of Secondlife

The vapor-lock of an empty club that you rez into can tell you megs upon megs of stories if you just sit quietly enough to look at the objects and the files within them. Who created them, and why. Most of it is a desperate cry for attention, or a document to say that you were simply here. Often times I am gleefully misdirected to a source of information I do not like. I shall share a fragment of the data-stream the goes across the screen.

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