A City Pulsing Not on Earth

No oil, no no no money. No engines, no pistons, no valves, no leaks, nothing filled, nothing unfilled, nothing fulfilled. 3 spaces, 2 spaces, spaces, no spaces. Space. Plenty of answers from aliens who willed it all to not humanity. It's not quite breathing. It's not quite time. No time. No, time. Just knowing without thinking, it's not thinking but it is. And there is no knowing about knowing. (trying to paint a picture in words, but synaesthesia failing) (is it?) Buildings that have no foundations, cars that aren't cars, rush hours with neither hours nor rushing, comb-overs that were never necessarily, no sex and no sex and nothing asexual but something. A city of robots that aren't robots, running marathons (it's not quite breathing). No cement, no limestone, no gravestones, no names, no no no money. It's not always green--there aren't any colors. Think. There's no thinking, no verbs, no words, complications or simplicity. But not nothing.

A place where electricity was never an innovation, far beyond those of mortal men, not men, have not been has-beens, not here, no. (trying to draw with abc's, or, rather, 0s and 1s) Colors are but no one worries, where one is no one. One with numbers, no individuals, but not like a Rand novel, not a novel, no novels, no words, no art, but not artless, no words but words unnecessary. So no words, no sentences, paragraphs, pages, books, trees, leaves, oxygen, carbon dioxide, chlorophyll, stomata, cells. Yes, cells. No, maybe cells--doesn't matter. Doesn't matter? Where robots, not robots, but those far beyond those of mortal men don't cry, they don't cry, no tears, no fears, no Tears for Fears, no years, but time, but mortality? Maybe eat, no stomach, maybe sleep, no eyes, but all seeing, a world of gods (ask ask ask yourself here) not walking, not waking, maybe sleeping, but existing. There is that much. There exists.