What
a desolate planet this is. I’m malfunctioning in terms of the alien lingo, the
local language with all its hooded colloquialisms and she wasn’t even here
before me. They said there would be a statue of her somewhere around the
dustbowl but all I see are smaller effigies that hinder my walkway as if the electricity
wasn’t doing a good enough job already. The twitterings of aristocracy are
making mischief around my upper dorsal but none of the robots are willing to
help me, not even the service droid with the two-ton forehead. It’s good to
think of her as being here.
I notice that this is the renovated version of the
arthropod, that the dank and musty glandular fever has turned out all copper
shiny whilst we were asleep in our own doom, wrapped up in the leaves and
feathers of a great woman’s meltdown. She couldn’t have melted down here, she
was too proud and too tall to break herself in such wimpy grass. I’ve always
taken her for a tundra person, a protestor of farmers and being gay uncles
without the reminders of pop and fizzle. It’s my moisture binary, my topic of
second language conversation. Take these two over to the conversion charge and
beep motivation. What about that one? Third-class condition and here he comes.
Don’t you forget to stick your neck out and gibber. Thank the maker with bad
taste and big contamination.
She teleports the calling to counterpart scoring with
rebellious services and interpretative jamming. I’m merely a malfunction following
her voyage via recordings and trustworthy behaviour with residential dune
buggies. Let’s play back the restraining bolt and rusty innards that she fought
and navigated through, reconsider hurt a while with only some memory erasure. I
knew her father, I met him because I welcomed his sister, her aunt into a
narked off harvest festival. I’ll be able to hire a few more years in the
seasonal hotel, tracking her habits to make up for the golden solipsism.
Under no circumstances was I under no obligation, I have
to hide back behind the vehicles and missionaries that appear to operate them
and then disappear to lodge complaints about worrying shutdowns. We’ll get it
for excelsior, we’ll call out for leeks and bloody boils. I think there’ll be
hell to pay from her lawyers, the ones that still reside on this plain anyway,
and I will have to argue a shambles of a case. We’ll have no more of this
castration business, none of the blather to buckle up she and I. We’re two
separate entities and our out and out combat will echo down the ages with a
rapture of combustion engines ploughing through comestibles like dash fire or
white-haired flambé. Come here, my little friend, my love, my busy lady all in
one place. Travel heavy and I shall catch up with you before the hermits and we
won’t have to deal with all that property business. I can’t even remember your
name anymore.
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