From "The Chronicles Of The Auto-Generator" by Durand J. Compton

Myriad fibre-optic cables run burrows of steel and ceramic sensors. Monitors. Protocols. Guards. Interface, interconnect and deviate quantum flux patterns exploring primal codes of desire. The Auto-Total Techs have no idea what they are playing with. Eons cycle rose hints as polis emanations coagulate and phase multiple realities into concrete and pigeon shit. Thomas races to the attic, plucks his father’s motor jacket from the knobtwist He rams metallic studs into black 50’s leather. He paints YHWH in red upon the back, an Irish torc of silver pierces the lapel. Off duty hours ram the slave’s willing symbol through his earlobe flesh. The pain is a sweet focus until the lab beckons. Only upside is the time to read. Twenty books a week, chump.
     I was looking for love, or sex, or something.
     I was looking to fill the hole.
     I was looking for you, but I kept finding her.
     More on this later.
     Charts deviate.
     Graphs eclipse.
     ‘We’re losing the signal.’
     ‘No, we’re not.
     ‘Prob lock 72%’
     ‘Stay on target.’
     ‘Lock, 68%’
     ‘Inject Heartbreak Solution.’
     ……..
     ‘We’ve lost the signal.’