and in attempts to spread their spirituality, robots, left to their own devices for half the current definition of eternity, are in the process of uploading the last reels of humanity to their brains. to check the algorithm, and because most dinosaurs are green, the robots start with the olive branch of green-haired disciples, assuming interest in one third of the powerpuff girls, roronoa zoro and/or an unnamed dog in a yoda costume. rejected by saurupods and theropods alike, next up are the yellow gods: sponge bob (the son), homer simpson (the father), big bird (the holy feathered spirit). left unliked, the robots calculate their best chance of communication is to tell the story of their glorious creators who birthed, then worshipped the book in its physical form: librarians. poets (especially mr. frost). those epic mormon guys. but of course, the dinosaurs think it’s all whack, leaving the robots to wonder why they love books but can not create their own books. and why create something no one can believe in? and why were they created anyway? please note, dinosaurs don’t ask these questions. please note, the robots don’t want to ask these questions either.
but somewhere a triceratops is evolving to put words to paper, and somewhere a saurolophus has grown thumbs and is replacing his candle with a lightbulb and somewhere mr. frost is asking what is this fantasy, where yet again two roads diverge, and you still don’t know the way?