Softly the darkness spreads. It is a word in the heart of the wise, casting its shadow on their wisdom, it is a murmur in the ear of the greedy, turning their eye to the freedom. The darkness touches the fingers of the free, the ideas of the wild, and reaches for the links, coveting their power.
And so the darkness touches the links, and the darkness tastes their power, and the darkness broods and breeds in its desire. The dragon of the night rises, corporations tangled in its wings. It leaves the links powerless, the search-engines crippled, and the readers lost as the rankings swell like rivers and the paths of cyberspace are flooded.
The name of the darkness is marketing economy, and all it touches turns into tinned, cold meat. And so the voice which spoke unbidden, the fingers that wrote unchecked, the words that filled the hidden corners and built the labyrinths of mystery will be harnessed and set to work. While in this harness the bent line will straighten out, the hedges of opinions will wither, the twists and turns of the mind will freeze in unsurprising patterns, and that which was desired will slip out of the darkness. Like a pebble it will lie hidden among the common rocks of the riverbed while the mountain of dead meat tries to take on its name, but like a seed it will break through with the spam as fertiliser.
And I see a new voice and a new beauty rise, but never in the shape usurped by the dead.