It’s atrophied away, my language engine, and I’m not sure how to start it turning again. My days are spent in the black box, by night in white. Plans are made around me; the world spins round, but I am still — still, not centered.

There has to be an end to it.

I’m looking for a seed. Care and water, care and water, that’s all she needs. So say the instructions. But — let her fly before the sun starts its evening retreat. Better for all concerned.

I never was much for the green things.

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