They keep returning, every Monday morning and every Sunday afternoon in the winter. They fly onto the windowsill and wait until I make a phone call or I speak one of my emails out loud, which I do.
Poor folk can’t afford the Cyborg factory as you know. Poor folk get old quickly but poor folk interest Mum so she marries them and ruins them and then moves on, bored again
Once we were capable of lifting the rocks from our heads, the beams from our shoulders. We were making a success and grooving along, cash-heavy with investment offers coming from all over the globe…