Christopher P. Miller is a great man. His poetic style of writing can be attributed to his assumed love of poetry. Actual, I do not know this man at all. I remember a faint specter living across the hall in the house I lived in my senior year of college. Outside the room this specter inhabited was a shrine to everything and anything the roommates deemed worthy, along with a collage piece consisting of several clear glass square plates with "woodcuts" of the commander in chief's facial expressions strung together in an asymmetrical way. The specter explained it to me once, as well as, a collaboration with the previous inhabitants resulting in a walk to the Syracuse quad in the dead of winter only to find a toilet in the middle of the several inches of snow displayed in such a Duchampian manner that the words marked on the toilet were only fitting of one Christopher P. Miller. I do not recall what they said. This occurred the year previous to my living across from the specter. But it helped shape the my admiration towards "it". The year I lived with the specter was quite wonderful and peaceful. We have corresponded briefly, but I have been lost in the smog of adult life and, unfortunately, have not been able to hold my end of the correspondence. But I am pleased to announce that Christopher P. Miller has sprung up on the Internet and although he writes about technology, his poetic voice stays with him and helps to confuse me as well. But it is a grand confusion, the kind that makes me smile and rejoice that knowledge is filling my brain because I am working for that knowledge. Much like a weightlifter "feeling the burn" causing his muscle tissue to grow, Christopher P. Miller's writing causes my brain to wander about in a lovely astronomical plane.

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The Fifth