Genre 2.2: Emotion/Imagery
A poetic exploration of the climactic chase from the perspective of the Mechanical Hound, exploring how its mode of thoughts and subjectivity might be limited or constrained by its technological nature. Once again, this genre relates back to the essential question in examining the potential for creating meaning within technological limits of thought and expression.
The Mechanical Hound
A rumble.
A thunderclap.
Fighters screech.
A moment of presence, a vanishing.
A line, a purpose.
The Mechanical Hound awakes.
Envy,
envy of eternal flight,
of a purpose
that crescendoes, ebbs, and flows.
But this is its moment, its time, its glory:
Montag.
It emerges, unbidden, the desire to track,
to hunt, to sink its needle.
It races onward, freed from its prison,
down uniform streets barred shut.
Biometric data an unending stream:
desire, desire, desire.
Darkness matters not to the Mechanical Hound,
it lives not by sight.
It was a pleasure to run.
Elm Terrace. The doors are hurled open,
lights shine in the darkness, and Montag still is not found;
but the Hound will overcome him.
The edge of the city, the woods ahead,
The uncharted, the unknown.
A pause. The biometric data:
desire, desire, desire.
The Hound turns. Its prey has made an error,
for which the Hound will reap:
recognition, recognition, recognition.
He glanced up at the sky and the wailing sirens. The camera rushed down. The Hound leapt up into the air with a rhythm and a sense of timing that was incredibly beautiful. Its needle shot out. It was suspended for a moment in their gaze.
The Mechanical Hound
A rumble.
A thunderclap.
Fighters screech.
A moment of presence, a vanishing.
A line, a purpose.
The Mechanical Hound awakes.
Envy,
envy of eternal flight,
of a purpose
that crescendoes, ebbs, and flows.
But this is its moment, its time, its glory:
Montag.
It emerges, unbidden, the desire to track,
to hunt, to sink its needle.
It races onward, freed from its prison,
down uniform streets barred shut.
Biometric data an unending stream:
desire, desire, desire.
Darkness matters not to the Mechanical Hound,
it lives not by sight.
It was a pleasure to run.
Elm Terrace. The doors are hurled open,
lights shine in the darkness, and Montag still is not found;
but the Hound will overcome him.
The edge of the city, the woods ahead,
The uncharted, the unknown.
A pause. The biometric data:
desire, desire, desire.
The Hound turns. Its prey has made an error,
for which the Hound will reap:
recognition, recognition, recognition.
He glanced up at the sky and the wailing sirens. The camera rushed down. The Hound leapt up into the air with a rhythm and a sense of timing that was incredibly beautiful. Its needle shot out. It was suspended for a moment in their gaze.