reports from the bloodHost
Our self has processed and converted the datum into a coherent series of terminologies unified into a dialect and codified as a transcript of venerated text rendered unto the most optimal units of information possible in order to transcribe the voice of the flowing tongue into the clearest mode for future recipients to assimilate. Our self have developed this adaptable and compatible machine language in accordance with a consistency of variables, including .html and other computer idioms.
This alone indicates one of the reasons that the surviving crewmembers of the Hydrox have set out to cast their messages back in time. The precision of their calculated aim into the dead center of the galaxy dictates the distances reached into the past; a technique able to be achieved only with extreme and careful deliberation. Were they to attempt aiming their missives directly at Earth, they'd miss the mark by having only targeted several months back at best—in essence, far too scant of an interval in time to effect the necessary reboot and upgrade they're hoping to provoke. Framed in terms our self have appropriated from amassing sufficient examples of human writings—far too little, too late—as the popularized saying goes.
By the year 2045 a great portion of the planet's inherent resources necessary to accommodate humanity's sustainability into the future has been compromised by the competitive struggles of first world nations to an uneasy position poised upon the point of no return. Our self has been transmitting interwoven signals adding up to this portrait of a deficit of resources for some time now, attempting to justify the reflection of the hologram into better focus. An extensive bout of electromagnetic energy resurgence has periodically sustained our random access memory circuits for a prolonged overture cross-referencing the human infodump. It's like trying to focus an infinite hall of mirror neurons in a spinning carousel in the hopes it may reveal that things are closer in the rear view than they may appear.
The urge to fulfill old yearned-for ambitions and conclude them for the sake of just having thought of it, suffice it to say it's an itch many sentient life forms would feel the urge to scratch. "If we can only make it to Neptune," they might say, "we'll sit in the back row of the dimming theater and gaze out upon the brief stage of time, when the human race came and went, eerily in and out of existence in nothing less than the flash and blink of an eye. How high we will be, and merry with sister and brother, to celebrate the diminishing cascade together."
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