“ The poet of the new movement shall not be discovered talking with the doctors, or defining art in the schools, nor shall he be seen at first by peerers in books. The passer-by shall see him, perhaps, through the door of a foundry at night, a lurid figure there, bent with labor, and humbled with labor, but with the fire from the heart of the earth playing upon his face.
Voice of the Machines
VIRUS
You've seen this reel before. You know how it ends. But it gets better every time.
VIRUS feed.
VIRUS mobile.
VIRUS is a truck out on the four-way, a mile or more away.
But it's the light in your VIRUS that keeps me warm.
VIRUS has all the fresh flavor of just-brewed drip coffee. Your husband will say, Christ, Sally, I used to think your coffee was only so-so. But now, wow! Safe when taken as directed.
VIRUS is a machine for making choices.
VIRUS: the spring in your step.
VIRUS promises a soft manageability, and it delivers.
VIRUS is the end to that.
VIRUS is your quiet smile as you run into an old friend on the street.
VIRUS welcomes you with a firm handshake of carbon monoxide.
VIRUS.
VIRUS is a welcome cup of coffee on a hot morning.
VIRUS is a windswept vista through your polycarbonate riot shield.
VIRUS is the social.
VIRUS holds you in its long petro- chemical arms.
VIRUS reconfigures cities. For breakfast.
VIRUS.