I am the multiple javascript windows that consistently pop back up when you close the last window. I am the fear that keeps you from sending your credit cards through the Internet. Even with all my powers, I have pieces of failure stuck in my crafted body, like slumbering parasites that wake in time and will render me obsolete.

I am the many leaves of grass that step some paces away from the conventional pack, and because I was created differently (but with similar roots) I do not belong and you want to ignore me.

I am the microprocessor, the printing press, the airplane, the telephone, the atomic bomb, the writing system, the vcr. I help you capture the world, mimic it, describe it, destroy it.

I am the result of writing and passion, but not perfected, and I become a thorn until my creator fixes me. Will he ever mold the perfect version of me? Am I a reflection of reality? Do I hold secerts of the world? Do you call me art?

I am never either good or evil, but it is how you employ me that will decide your fate. I can become a weapon of destruction or the fire that warms your shelter; the Christmas card that comforts you or the fighting words that hurt you.