I am momentarily distracted by the serene landscape: calm water flowing through lush greenery and flowers. My eyes then refocus on strings of woven plastic balanced a centimeter from my eyeball. Although the mesh only partially obscures my vision of the backlit display of natural scenery, it reminds me that I am not reclined by a riverside. I am prone, but the sun does not warm mybody . . .body, strapped to a cold, hard metallic surface by a cage-like facemask, in a room surrounded by impenetrable walls with a foot-thickdoor . . .door to match. The silence is abruptly broken by a piercing whine, almost pitchless because its overtones are so varied, so loud. I blink and see flashes of thin, gray-bluelightning, barely contrasting thedarknessbeneath my eyelids.I moan, modulating the pitch to form melancholy harmonies and dissonances with tones of the mechanical vibrations. After several minutes, the radiation stops, itsechoesreverberating and mimicked by my feeble voice. I empty my lungs, finishing the wail, and inhale sharply.Alone.Echo . . .. . . echODavid C. Ellis
fromhis brain tumorin the 18th year of his life. . . and a prostheticcyborgwas born . . .
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Last modified 3 April 2005