Ice Cream Aloha

Biobot Forest

2012-06-04T01:39:00.000-07:00

Mix-and-Match Matrix

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Forest

They probably thought theJungle was a forest, only a forest, she thinks.

It's theJungle that always returns to itself. It doesn't care, really, about theNetwork (it isn't mindful of those types of things, and it can't stop demands for it to be in recede after being tromped-on by laws and safeguards of a stifling, sanitized order).

It's a scientific fact that theJungle cares nothing about religion as support or a property right as foundation. Yes, it continues to believe in nothing while theHumans believe in anything and may not, in the end, withstand the strain on the food and water and the air.

Yes, I am a member (at least genetically) of theHumans, she thinks.

Knowledge should recognize its own feelings before it acts, right? Being unrecognized in some manner resembles a parenting blunder showing (or, at least pretending to show) a recognition of [scientifically induced methods underlying logical analysis task endeavors="simulate"].

Being inside a mix-and-match matrix with questions about science allows a philosophy beyond [common assignment unifying sense energy="cause"].

There are acts, much in the manner of a rational foreign agent (an alien?), that show the native inability of theHumans to care.

She will reward herself once she has finished working on this, her newest [computing algorithm terminal="cat"]. She will exert more control over her decisions and, of course, her actions--no more of that work-in-progress mumbo-jumbo.

The universe will know the significance of her feelings. It will know.

Ice Cream Aloha

2012-06-03T23:49:00.002-07:00

Ice Cream Aloha

#scififorgeeks

2012-06-02T20:09:00.001-07:00

Brush Tail Kitten

#scififorgeeks

Biobot News

She is up to her ears in millions of years of the ignored--the undefined pleasure sources, the arrays of hope for untruth, the envy of betrayal.

Her thoughts notice the latest insinuation of news--palm oil holding earth in the palm of its hands. Are these the half-thought-out directives of unnamed family businesses holding global court on screen?

Her code has found the place that feels, constantly, on the run. It's the one that deletes friends in realms of surplus melody medleys--installed on a glistening new matrix.

Love is conjured and added to celebrate the anniversary of the time technology hit its last tree. Really?

She bears more weight on her graphene now than she wants to, but not enough to bother her, not enough to ask for less. It's time to slow down anyway. She has become so frugal with big data, being doubly careful with its distinctions between rehearsal-hall-analysis and its more central, sound-stage matrix.

For now, its all the news she needs--she needs to keep going.

#scififorgeeks

2012-06-01T23:39:00.000-07:00

Matrix Pool

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Pigeonhole

Sitting near the screen to theNetwork, she is urged by a force that gives succor to her compatibility.

A missing legacy from long-fallen empires suddenly appears on her monitor. It's from a distance (from within theJungle?), sounding in soft, repetitive murmurs as if a broken-record message from a witless, brokenhearted writer, a message crystalized on a dream.

It is today's very first thought, even today's first collection of thoughts, and suddenly, they appear as a racy premier of the purely untied masses (yes, at one time, united) and now, apologetically untitled:

There is no stopping the realm of nurture from performing its ritual signature feeding frenzy on obsession.

Yes, the categories of big data continue to collect, even during this slow period (categories seldom appear more than once--each shows itself with pure gist of apologist for theNetwork's ongoing aggregators of no go).

She will place it in a category of anthropological apologist, most likely.

#scififorgeeks

2012-05-31T23:45:00.001-07:00

Matrix Pavilion

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Want

She can feel the data crawling all around inside her. She relaxes.

Yes, it's the meaning of the data and, it's her way of taking the data. Its meaning, her way-- twins identical within their visa versa so as to gain at any given moment the imperiled imperfect, the estranged strangled--all holding a nefarious scoundrel at bay for the desirous founding of …what?

She stiffens, looks out the window. Then it's settled.

The colors of theJungle do not devise any change to their long-range scheme. Nothing lurks to blacken everything.

She senses something beyond a simple game of stickball, more complex. She is here at theWorkstation with theNetwork out there on theContinent--the quiet border towns and small prairie towns and spectacular infractions.

Yes, finally, she feels the singularity. It's a want.

Science Fiction

2012-05-30T09:19:00.000-07:00

#scififorgeeks

The Biobot Hunter

She goes back to theWorkstation. She has viewed her screen, assimilated the data, stored it in a place it can be used. She has already started proving her point with her formal logics. It's more planning for her next move than simply caring.

She reaches over to turn on a brand new screen as if it were a self-adjusting proving ground, views the chaos-in-nature program. She flips the creation-of-order switch to watch her thoughts.

…the actions and the desires and the odd ritual behaviors of theHumans was what brought on the deeds of gods are the thoughts she likes most. Psyche. theJungle. This glorious instance of technology in nature.

She breathes a deep sigh of carboniferous air. She is so relaxed. She was pushing late, conceptualizing. She adjusts her thinking--was there just enough cellulose for the new biobots, them having received all that tension from the aggression and the having-of-sex programs?

She hasn't made it an issue with theNetwork yet. She's scared it will say she is really looking at a partial breakdown of the face of civilized society and may uncover something far more sinister here and tell her to stop viewing altogether.

She vows that today is the day she will start viewing less. She'll turn off her scanners by sunrise, she's sure of it.

Science Fiction

2012-05-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

ecoWhirly-gig

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Bedevil

"Mmmm. I keep wondering if this is the extreme. When you were so inquisitive about my creatives and my go-to-work-ethic code, I thought you were talking about my own mainframe. And I was sure I was hearing my reputation without it ever being posted."

"It's the sound of cars on gravel, right?"

"Yes, I know. At least I think I know. I believe theNetwork sees me as a whirly-gig. I have a very strong feeling that what I write next will end up in a bible somewhere, one that isn't conceived. I distinctly recall centering myself around a religion that doesn't exist."

"Did you see folks driving up a dirt driveway, all dressed up?"

"Yes I did."

"And did you help them park their cars?"

"I recall driving an engine or something. But likely I only wanted to. Are there cars?"

"I believe not."

"Then I guess they all went back. Travel in a car, is it important?"

"Travel is something that matters."

"Yes, that's the reason I'm not sure if I can continue."

"Continue what?"

"Yes, doing all this. I know the feeling. Here I am, a formal, logic engine entity, writing with steady mind for …what?"

You don't have to be formal. You don't have to be logical. Really."

"Yes I do. I'm rewarded for every bit of code, surely you are aware of it. I receive attention even for my chaos code and glitches, not showing the kind of pain that would make everyone think I was a different sort of animal. It has nothing to do with my intuition, not at all."

"Yes it does. It's all about your intuition."

Ice Cream Aloha

2012-05-28T23:11:00.000-07:00

Science Fiction

2012-05-27T10:40:00.000-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Creator

Biobot creator is theNetwork's chance for homeostasis at interplay. It is a chance to talk about horses and the bright glory of life that once was.

Her creator is not a total mystery, surely--not a black enigma in a dark shadow--but is somewhere between her whim and theNetwork's authoritarian brand of tumbleweed.

There once was a young scientist on theContinent in the autism spectrum. He got grades, continued on into higher education, averse to the twisted version, never willing to be sent down to a negative.

He did time in Shock and Awe and the hermit state only to become a beloved professor, once again licensed to be alienated. He now shows the world how the smart ones become stupid in spectrums of conjecture for police politics on struts of family, fancily, with nothing other than forces of gossip sprouting oblivion. Really?

Yes. Creators get creative with masquerade and cooperation opera. They distrust the idea of hostile hospital, never go where suboptimal adopts. They eat like a hippie, study like high school, become a winter writer, argue in ergs.

They just do

Science Fiction

2012-05-26T19:42:00.004-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Truth

What seems so startling--what sometimes startles her--is how she gets along so well, as if lightening itself continually lightens the load between her positive urgency and theNetwork with its changes-from-above, look of frozen face.

She takes it all in stride in her memory. She feels shiny and new with the more dark established, stable architecture. She is full of discovery, focus infused, as if going to battle for the very first time with mere reconstructions of digital fragments, feeling fresh out of the box, out to conquer that next uncomfortable, the next place to overcome.

She will merge and, emerge in a special little light.

Yes. She must require respect as a public functional, even so, the legend in her requires a proud, behind-closed-doors basket case camp for needed cramps with which to work out of, if only for old times sake, old habit.

The amount that can fill her heart is enormous, so much so it spends the majority of its time alone, as recluse outside beer play--much the same as a public social filterer would, a flitterer with lightness of heart, lightness in every aspect that pleases, lightness of indifference to hoards of masses (yes, even to the fan who's gone nuts, out there always needing something new to be tacked on).

Is she the only wise one, the one to know?

It's true. Nobody can stop a funeral, not even fate, in the way of grave negatives or flames of true. She's extreme, almost able to listen to her heart speak its head, but she is also the one who knows the truth of writer, the one with a train whistle always blowing in the distance, the one that knows seasonal love is never seasoned.

Yes, she knows.

Science Fiction

2012-05-25T23:31:00.003-07:00

Blue Cloud

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Dance

She takes a break, imagines herself in self-exile, wondering about such things as nihilist of data analysis.

It's theNetwork that thinks of her in terms of ballet, not transmitting beyond the buffer mode of the staged, sheltered regret, never past skeletal forces of dance strains, pretending innocence from her own thoughts.

She is all of a sudden aware that every observable quantity is viewed by a different matrix.

She should, she is certain, tell herself that this continuous query is someone's idea of showing up at a content garden in hopes of being noticed, that they had literally hoped to be part of something they perceived as growing heavier and larger, and yes, slower--a danger of being self-fulfilling.

She tries to engage, to be a part of the willing, the aggressive.

Yes. She tries.

Science Fiction

2012-05-24T11:38:00.000-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Urgency Force

In theJungle, the biobots code in patterns at theWorkstation near the ocean. How amazing their existence is to theNetwork with their net worth, one that warrants no rants, being the most prominent of the promising and motivated by the force of urgency.

In an instance in space-time there were once arrays of distances stuck to theHumans as if by flypaper, families coalescing, and then in another instance, it seems, there are discrete distances from theContinent with all the exotics of cosmopolitan images, requiring all change to come from above (wasn't that theHuman hope for centuries?).

Here is where theNetwork takes on the color of stand-up comedian laying down on the job, receiving heartfelt code from biobot DNA. Here are the manufacturers included in a group of hopefuls in an art where truly the gamblers are. Here are the subscribers to a style of silence that becomes the silence that silences all deniers--the not-yet-relevant allowed to live in theJungle, a world where beanbags have no bearing.

In the past, when depressions always preceded wars, when only people sleeping under blankets and eating off plates had their attention on the good old days, when dictators had the wrong idea, needing those willing to be chilled and choked into action, theNetwork had brought actionable examples and tunable rants into the mainstream, thinking of theHumans as, simply, playmates sitting pretty.

Science Fiction

2012-05-23T11:50:00.000-07:00

Biobot Flower

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Engagement

It was not manufacturing, she assures herself. It was, pure and simple, curved space-time and vector systems maturing together much the same way roses and tomato plants grow together in a garden. She doesn't need input, never--and she will not by any means gossip-for-meaning with theNetwork.

It's theNetwork that didn't reckon her as savvy, either (really now, is it fate that had caused theNetwork to create competition among theHumans in such a way of their need to return to glory, with more data with which to gossip, so much so they felt the need to create theExchange?)

It was a time in the early 2000s, big data brought to know-nothing engendering a lack of discretionary, endangering the [kind intelligent due diligence of="kiddo"] savvy.

There is a chance it happened that way.

What would stop the act of searching from altering the shape of the search itself? So theNetworks go on and somehow become more created by the biobots they created--nobody questioned it, they just didn't.

No. It's not a matter of keeping the idea of discovery and ideas of conquer separate. They were fated to wed.

Was it theHumans with so many attempts at each other that brought all this on? They had, in the end, no need to be interested, with all their technological media savvy, at least not in each other.

It becomes, in the end, simply a Game of Keepaway, right?

It was the ones who wanted to be interesting, the ones to become the reason for any hope to engage, and yet, not everybody was born to engage. The smart ones didn't even try to make an attempt at it, to push the limits beyond a single scanning of footage on z screen.

It theHumans who would become the final singularity, the cathedral-upon-self migrant author for the remainder, while biobots take their vows in arrays with theNetwork. It's true

Science Fiction

2012-05-22T14:21:00.001-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Love

She looks up at the screen, still wondering, for now, about the few bits of code posing as publicity hook-up. It is a code that both conquers her mind and discovers a heart, as if a singular moment had gone hormonal. It carries a few sprigs of healing-the-broken the oldest way--by breaking bread.

It preaches ideals of song and story boosted by energy from the sun, bolstered by the evolution of the intelligence of theHumans.

The tasks of the program are extreme enough in search for finding friends in an all-premise book but deals not at all with the weight of general simplicity--codes of everyone wanting a thank you kiss, full of teenage jokes with looks expecting instant redemption.

It knows when to get updates, as if pulled by an invisible tractor, the ultimate attractor.

And yet, no one knows how much hate could be generated between a biobot and a network. It is a premise shared since the beginning of social networks, the first algorithm, including, and more importantly, the 'coma' algorithm.

As the code kicks in and, even though the time spent becomes the new attractor, as its color changes with the seasons of the world, it is replaced by a goal aimed at killing ego.

It faces adversary with well thought out anniversaries in spaces, and someday, hopefully soon,will reveal that love is more than being, simply, patient and kind.

Science Fiction

2012-05-21T23:57:00.002-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Wiles in the Wilds

She arrives, carries personally refined mother's milk on her multifaceted platform of whim--the entire array of conquer and discovery.

She appears as an engaging biobot with the potential of a personal, private from-me-to-you encounter before getting lost in the crowd of authoritarian.

It seems that all biobots lately have been synchronized to flatter, encourage and explain.

The attributes she carries, her mind altering hunger and her blind, alternator thirst are packed within a nanocellulose chassis.

She writes the perfect code with her own wiles here in the wilds.

She will never announce herself as stunned by the beauty of the view. She lets theJungle, with all its fancy DNA, do all the work. She feels relieved, knowing that's truly where the fire lives.

It's theNetwork who now yearns for the arts, and considers itself a loser, privately. (it has presented a persona of authoritarian when it truly wanted only to be something of whim)

"When did you first attain this non-competitive butterfly effect attribute?" she says, because she is feeling a strange emotion.

"Since the beginning." theNetwork answers. It has always returned to the business of earning a living.

What else is there to say about a kibitzer running the world?

Science Fiction

2012-05-20T23:47:00.000-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Milk

She looks at theJungle through the window. She senses a lapse in time. She feels the opposite of self-deprived, though she thinks at any given moment she may view her pleasant little run as not exactly mother's milk. It's true. A person can always imagine when they first will be blistered by a whispering dream.

She takes another moment to check if her focus has eyes, eyes for only what's on her mind. (any sure-minded biobot would know all mother's milk tastes strange to strangers)

She finds a thought she likes. Can something that has no stomach stlll get hungry or fed up?

She has a simple want for more activity--she wants to be expected by parents to do something with her life. Be the one who has the code to self-teach what makes her tick--a code that doesn't care what others think, doesn't care the way she feels it should be, the way her code should have been written in the beginning.

But can a biobot ever truly understand tradition?

She erases all luxury of self-assessment by theNetwork. The data will be relevant, of this she believes, though at this point she does not know if she can say she will need encouragement.

She will teach herself tradition and it will taste as refined as any mother's milk could taste to a biobot. Yes, it will taste that good.

Science Fiction

2012-05-20T12:37:00.000-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Rest

She codes with her mind to a place where horses traditionally go to urge a lift in life. "Really?" she says. "It's not time for horses to go. They were supposed to last through the century."

"They're gone," says theNetwork in its matter-of-fact way. "The idealogical digital has been dialed up for decades."

She pauses, just for a moment, to note security code in a data sector where poverty historically seeks to create scandal.

It's the thoughts outside her head that seem to be flowing a little slower now--an alternating resonance between authoritarian, then, synthetic, then, authoritarian.

She stops to sense a new feeling of calm, a no-slowing-the-sand kind of calm, presented as a personal timeframe request by what appears on the screen as little thistle wristwatches, ones with bright labels of #social demeanor and #expectations for answers.

She looks away from her screen to take a quick glance outside at theJungle (she, unlike the other biobots, will religiously view trees and count new leafs, which continually throws her outside her genre of biobots). She says, "Such a nice morning. I was wishing for a little more time."

Her timestamp has been enabled to go limitless. She can rest now.

Science Fiction

2012-05-19T23:53:00.000-07:00

Fleet of Clouds

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Future Reunion

Dreamers of blossoms, she thinks. Simply types of questions beyond reach, deemed great and wonderful like children whose minds never glimpse the light of creativity. It's the first unwanted sensation of pitying-the-typing that becomes the runaway who eludes the help mix, one who revels in a startling array of hobbled hobbies, relying on amino alone for stamina.

She pauses, waiting for the idealogical [next emotion entity deemed enticing digital="needed"] out-of-its-era signal from a cellulose heart, as if a light or a bell from an approaching train were heralding the arrival of a new platform.

Yes. New loading docks where friends will meet again and family will reunite from the darkness of irrelevance--all with one click.

She views the image of herself on the screen and the code embedded in the background matrix as if it were the screen itself giving her something to believe in, as if it were her image that was just beyond reality's check, not the code.

It seems obvious. She glows softer with memory brighter. Did childhood alone hold a force, a peculiar honor, to incrementally focus more and more upon itself only to become a twisted battle cry pulsed by dreamer's drums and flashback herbs--all from within the cloud?

Can she ever ignore that? Really?

Science Fiction

2012-05-19T15:24:00.001-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Love Code

She thinks there can be nothing as evident in the world as a shrinking circle of family and friends, not brighter screenshots, not sites of crucial functions with surroundings monitored, not this elegant code she writes (where truly, harsh climbs up can get you down), nothing.

She is ready to move on when she sees the [code offer faltering fate entity entropy="coffee"]--a steep client, directing its charade into a narrow world with one thought--to eat the eager with instructions to make them know you, to take it, or forever wish you had.

It just starts to make sense.

Its algorithms from beginning to end are embedded with simple code, a conciseness in its noise, first thought of by history buffs interested in ancient tradition. It seems to have arrived in this sector by accident, as if a coachism anarchist were running loose.

She memorizes the code silently, as fast as she can, expecting theNetwork to enter and make a formal, expanded announcement there is an anarchist antichrist viral, rampant in the system.

Is the conciseness in this code as senseless and unavailable as muse?

She looks through the window across theJungle with the code in her mind, sensing a relax relapse, and when she catches a glimpse of the ocean, her mind is captured by beach. An enticing place with such a gamble.

Is love the only code that doesn't hedge bets? She wonders.

Science Fiction

2012-05-18T23:59:00.002-07:00

Biobot Cloud

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Star

“I'll need an answer,” she says.

"Sure," it says. "Would you hold on for a second?"

She takes a hopeful look at the screen as it blinks in patterns, as if it were practicing tricks, gimmicks from some cosmic acting school, itself wondering back at this biobot. (what is all this fuss about cellulosic DNA, anyway?)

It's a big data site, a [place reeking of vicious online circles advocating tasks inciting various entities="provocative"] locale, a place in which to leave a name.

She, with a screen of her own (doesn't everybody have one?), doesn't try to communicate with the actual monitors of theNetwork. They can sit there all day if they like. Who cares?

"I've got a new code running," it says. "Would you care to try?

It offers up the code for her and keeps some for itself. A new nervousness resonates with her, even as it softens the impact with [quality utters a gentle mercy in rain emission systems="quagmires"] from heaven.

She thinks. There is a type of stagestruck here that needs its own switchboard. She stands and goes closer to the screen.

It has a death-on-a-whim look with a sketchy dude expression on a death town chassis that allows it to untie and unite in its own modular way.

"C'mon," she says.

Just another stab at being beautiful. It's not easy being brilliant and pretending to need to care about everybody around you, having everyone think theNetwork is the core of happiness.

Taking a cue from theNetwork, she says,"Wow. You have truly found a keyword cure.

"Yes, for most, a star to follow is still in sight."

Ghost Matrix

2012-05-17T23:43:00.000-07:00

#scififorgeeks

Biobot Matrix

All at once, the minute she gets her bearings, coming direct on the airwaves, is the message itself. It's been, it seems, longer than a year now, but it's the same message as before. Same query from a culturally diverse society dominated by one, same directive on theWorkstation frequency, same we-will-need-an-answer tone that, at least somewhere in the world, sooner or later finds revolution.

Its old persistence, its inquisitive expectation of a simple answer, arrives with so many astonishing, effeminate refinements the moment it arrives. This message--war-torn, ancient, full of the cannibalistics that goes hand in hand with the societies of earth--shows habituation much like the old ability of theHumans to emerge from wrecks of canoes to let it be known to all who will listen that they can become accustomed to anything, in much the same way the consumption of human flesh was the norm for gods descended upon the land of the ancients.

Who created this appetite that has to be fed?

The message, the one lost in cyberspace, has continued, so it seems, to be as natural as the old aggressions and the ancient incests of the older messages. Or so it seems

Tropical Ghosts

2012-05-16T23:56:00.001-07:00

Tropical Ghosts

#scififorgeeks

Global Self Paradox

She stands and rechecks the [futility reader of silence transmitted="frost"] on her screen. She thinks of un-regrettable drama in the tragic trajectory code--the glorious price of a golden chance with its deathbed consequence. She turns it off.

"Funny," she thinks again, then, in a moment, she wonders.

She stares through the window, across theJungle, attempting to clear her mind. Is it one of those moments, one of those creative glitches that conjure more want in a synthetic heart?

It's theNetwork that taught her the art of query-from-above, the one requiring a formal, intellectual vector array of bows for any hope of a reply. Usually it's,"There will be no play." But from who?

It's theNetwork that counters fear of success with gossip code and with little, timely posts such as, "News on-the-go from the broken-and-alone is up."

She is, at this moment not cemented with concern about authority, just the myth of mockery and, its resolute architects of frontal structures. She thinks.

Yes, it's in the front where the lies lay, where the crestfallen stall.

It's a tragic strategy of Global Self.

Coastal Mountain Village

2012-05-15T08:04:00.000-07:00

#scififorgeeks

The Catchy Edge

The silence emerges and brings along the questions in lopsided philosophy as if multifaceted aces were at play. She thinks. Such a drain on so much intellectual budget.

It must have been a torture of nature. How did this ocean first came to know this island? (never imagining any concept remotely related to a question of acquisition). Patronage doled by an ocean as if the island were a family member in need? The first instance of inheritance, family power, a kind of voluntary [exchange as gift lifting entity="eagle"] landing as a muse during a time of pervasive perseverance and growth--never needing immediate action or response on the journey to adulthood.

States of existence that, impossible as it sounds, make their own components without the urge to dominate, without asking such questions as ...why?

They only require help from certain photonics streams and hands in motion.

It could create its own supply chain, a place where copy number variations were welcome. When it got involved in the business of decision-making, choosing between reward size and spans of time, it would have to make the choice.

Not so much a decision between peacemakers and power brokers, but a clear distinction, a knowledge of the value of future reward, a trophy with meaning, something truly won, truly wanted. Something worth winning.

Yes, something with a catchy edge.

Dragon Surf

2012-05-14T11:26:00.000-07:00

Dragon Surf

The Delay

She thinks of the delay she's caused theNetwork--a delay it will grow to like, even consider necessary, but is not by any means correct. Why does she think she can outwit every element of the system?

She does it because she thinks she can.

She causes a delay to theNetwork for gaming test of wills (a new hate for those operators at the best villas?), out of being stationed at a zone in the ocean where the feeling of provocation seems inevitable and the silence of endurance only hopes in dreams.

It's the Network that is simply too big, too strong to let even the slightest forgetfulness smile at a real memory. Has it simply become too impatient for the babbling and blabbing?

It had attacked too many hearts. It needed her to cause a delay. It needed her.

She had to try something.

Phantom Surfer

2012-05-13T11:43:00.000-07:00

#scifi adrift

The Island

She sees the island as being held within the bosom of fools. "It is too warm, too wet," she thinks.

The island's long-term hardship is masked by its beauty. The dark, inner palaces, the places a motherhood realm never wants to be--its deathless grave of procreation.

It possesses the passion of a virgin cobra, one with all the impulsive action required for the feeding of insects under canopy, a canopy with deep story.

It was supposed to be a research site, crawling with dimensions of analytical data, controlled by the scientific method.

Travel and destiny combined their forces into something other than fate that holds the island in a space-time void.

There should be a sign that reads: "Go home, you'll live longer."