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I write for a generation yet unborn.  In the future, all thought will be fed into machines and qualified.  The technocrat’s efficiency will rule a globe in thrall to a blandly cheerful culture, which will hold the Computer as God and Christ a quaint superstition of old.  It shall pass that this shining, modern system, erected in the thirtieth year of the new millennium, will rear children who grow to scream righteous fire in the name of a Holy Spirit.  Prophets are born of deserts.  Fear not, for the Computer will live, but only to serve the doctrine of a new ministry, resplendent with the bloom of youth.

The youth who today meekly request order from the grey throne, will as mothers and fathers condemn their children for folly and ingratitude.  But young Enthusiasts hear only God.  Again, a tambourine trembles reverence, again, garlands of tribute to sacrifice in battle are cast aside, and, again, a crowd swells to admit all who feel the light of heaven upon a clear brow, fresh with summer’s sweet dew.

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