On the floor you see some books (a stack of
'pedias(
?),
dictionaries(
?),
Reference handbook(
?),
sourcebooks(
?), a copy of
Bartlett's(
?), and
a
9/11 memorial plaque(
?)...)
Above you, you see the outlines of
Meta and
WMF.
The strains of an
argument waft up from
downstairs.
You climb into the cozy attic. It is full of
templates,
manuscripts,
letters,
boards, and old
projects (
Wiki,
meta, and otherwise).
You fall asleep in a beam of
sunlit dander.
You start daydreaming of
freedom (
copyright/
copyleft,
accessibility),
scope,
growth and
wealth...
...Then your dreams turn to
war,
monsters,
schism and
death.
You encounter a gaggle of users and heirarchs, by # of edits ( 50 active, full .csv), RfC, age, &c. Many are toting camera bags. Others are wandering about recording foreign sounds.
There is a door to the East, and a small tunnel to the South.
Inside the tunnel, you find a hollow with a crystal ball.
Looking into the ball you see
babbling
universal
static, chapter-length
monographs flying by... you feel a certain subtle
solidification centered on the back of your head, and can almost grasp what the fuss is all
about.
Everything looks like home... but somehow different. You notice you have a real door in place of a portal. Your feet carry you toward it, and it slides open at your approach. The WP:neighborhood watch gives you a friendly nod as you head out. There's a little barbecue down the block; a block reporter with a press badge is there taking notes and grabbing stills from the webcam. ...
It gets darker and darker. You have the sense of fabric-padded walls rising up to form low parallellopipeds. In the distance you hear a refrigerator compressor wheeze on. The air starts to smell like bulk sanitizer. you hear voices placing purchase orders, files being placed in drawers, doors being opened and closed, locks being flicked, the jingle of keys and the whirr of fax machines. You can't see anyone, but they all seem awfully busy.
Ahhhh, that's more like it. Who needs music when white noise inspires such peace? You wouldn't mind never waking up... slumbering dreamlessly, you don't.
On the floor you see some books (a stack of
'pedias(
?),
dictionaries(
?),
Reference handbook(
?),
sourcebooks(
?), a copy of
Bartlett's(
?), and
a
9/11 memorial plaque(
?)...)
Above you, you see the outlines of
Meta and
WMF.
The strains of an
argument waft up from
downstairs.
You climb into the cozy attic. It is full of
templates,
manuscripts,
letters,
boards, and old
projects (
Wiki,
meta, and otherwise).
You fall asleep in a beam of
sunlit dander.
You start daydreaming of
freedom (
copyright/
copyleft,
accessibility),
scope,
growth and
wealth...
...Then your dreams turn to
war,
monsters,
schism and
death.
You encounter a gaggle of users and heirarchs, by # of edits ( 50 active, full .csv), RfC, age, &c. Many are toting camera bags. Others are wandering about recording foreign sounds.
There is a door to the East, and a small tunnel to the South.
Inside the tunnel, you find a hollow with a crystal ball.
Looking into the ball you see
babbling
universal
static, chapter-length
monographs flying by... you feel a certain subtle
solidification centered on the back of your head, and can almost grasp what the fuss is all
about.
Everything looks like home... but somehow different. You notice you have a real door in place of a portal. Your feet carry you toward it, and it slides open at your approach. The WP:neighborhood watch gives you a friendly nod as you head out. There's a little barbecue down the block; a block reporter with a press badge is there taking notes and grabbing stills from the webcam. ...
It gets darker and darker. You have the sense of fabric-padded walls rising up to form low parallellopipeds. In the distance you hear a refrigerator compressor wheeze on. The air starts to smell like bulk sanitizer. you hear voices placing purchase orders, files being placed in drawers, doors being opened and closed, locks being flicked, the jingle of keys and the whirr of fax machines. You can't see anyone, but they all seem awfully busy.
Ahhhh, that's more like it. Who needs music when white noise inspires such peace? You wouldn't mind never waking up... slumbering dreamlessly, you don't.