This spinning stick figure, fleeing through the dark, slowly drops and dissolves into a dark pentagon surrounded by connected white sections. This dying flower pulses with oscillating lifepoems, 5-fold couplets that preach the benefits of vengeance, and the need for cheap and constant travel to the moon and other unpleasant places. As spring approaches (as in "spring is sprung", an ancient clock-poem that dead children are often forced to recite for hours in the empty classrooms of the afterworld's school-system), the black pentagon flower blooms, becoming a whitened and virtual image of itself, made of unstable electronic lines that pulse from the point-center of the flower off to the void, where they expand to light-year-wide shape.     I became a shape of light, the poem that I was.