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AutopilotStanding in the middle of the room, I suddenly woke up - I thought about all the depressing matters
I had dealt with the last days - but I didn't feel depressed, I was laughing like crazy,
"and I didn't even have to feel ANY OF IT!"
After a whole year of intense studying, it felt like I was nearing my goal - after many bad attempts.
Standing in the shower, I was feeling that feeling you get afterwards, like when you're really
pleased with yourself. And I was - for many reasons.
I was hungry - of course I dealt with that in the same quick manner as everything else in my life these days.
I kept thinking to myself, that after this hits the market, will people ever go back? I didn't think so.
The world NEEDS people to make it go around, I mean, you can automate all you want, but you still need people
around the machines. The thing is, I want to give people the full package - depending on their lack of strength.
It's strange to see how freaking expendable our emotions
really are - how close
Pop Or Flop!"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to... Pop Or Flop!" the presenter shouted, followed by an uproar of applause from the audience.
"Thank you, I'm your host, Neil Richardson, and today's contestant is... Amy Dabell!" he said, and from behind the stage walked a tall young woman of about 21, with long golden hair and a glittery dress.
"So Amy, how do you feel about being on the show?"
"It's great to be here Neil, can't wait to play!" Amy replied, glancing around the stage. It was laid out with 4 platforms with a beautiful woman at each one, belly's full and resting on a stool, with another golden platform in front of Amy.
"So Amy, you know how the game works, but for those of you at home, this is how it works: Amy will pick one of these fine young ladies, today being Emma, Naomi, Lizzie and Lucy, and she will come down and be Amy's. Amy will pop a girl, then be offered to swap. She then pops another, and repeats the process, until only Amy's girl is left, and we pop her to see what's inside.
you were on a oily and worn table
and you were all screwed apart
machine parts everywhere
cause you were powered off
your head was still on your torso and lower body
but arms and legs were taken off
and your chestplate gone
head was open
your long hair soaked in fluids
black oil leaking out of your arm- and leg joints
your arm, the one nearest me
is a cogwheel in the midst
fastened to your slender female skeleton
and wires were sticking out - the mechanical wires that pulls your movement
the light is dull and yellow
and only lights up the table you're lying on
but i could see what else was around in a green and dim light
nothing of real interest
computers and monitors
your skin is yours
i can bend your bodyparts
and i hear the servos whirring
clear as a memory of yesterday
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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