The Third Day

I sit in this coffee shop this morning as fresh and as sleepy as can be. Soon the Tiring Affair will start, and it'll progressively become not-so-bad, and in the end "that was it?". I'm here sipping my abatanado in my 8-year old prom suit and 8-year old prom tie. Little did these items had an inkling they'd ever be called back to the arsenal, and yet, here you glisten, Platinum Tie. The polyester gods smile on you. No one notices the charade, only me, the suit and the tie know (and laugh to themselves I'm sure) that this and their first use are the same charade. The fit is tighter, but it's really the same. Anyway I have nothing to say on this matter anymore. Let the end-of-the-day Me elaborate. • Gladly. Please, if you ever get the chance to watch a robot chastise a human for not being human enough it'll be something else, I assure you. It's the funniest thing. As a human you feel a kind of guilt at the time, he seems to be making sense, the robot. "You're swerving out of standard operating procedure, you're not doing the things as a human you were supposed to be doing. I mean, frankly, it's embarrassing really, you can barely convince me." Eventually you get a sense of who of what you're talking to and what else can you do but smile, that glorious Non-Action. As we know robots have evolved to eliminate the smile from their arsenal, it just didn't make any practical sense. Like the appendix it gradually lost its use. They still can manage a kind of crude imitation, but it's much too stiff, blatantly unreal, at times you can even hear the creaking of the metal plates locking into place as the program SMILE is booted into the operating memory, not to mention the rust building up in the more moist parts of the mouth. • Needless to say, it's too late, my feet are dead, all my muscle is being channeled into my writing hand. My mind races as my body hungers for sustenance. You'll get your fill, Body, eventually anyway, but if you're so damn tired, just drop dead, I'll get the point. • I can quit at any time, I know why I'm here (as they say), it's because I don't want to know why I'm here, ever, but hey, you have to know the rules to break them, to vaporize them is too much work, but to domesticate them just takes a little practice, a little hard work. Though this day was in vain. Or was it. You never know, some things reveal themselves not to have been in vain at the very last second, leaving us staring at the gaping abyss of fate wondering: "Is this shit for real?" • Scream all you want, Feet, there will be no rest beyond the allotted time, the dictatorship of the mind has begun. Well, it had begun long before, you're just complaining now because it's only now affecting you, it's always the same with these proletariat folk. Don't you see? I can quit, any time, the thing is, how much would I be quitting, a million times more than two words I'm quite sure. And besides, we agreed before, we admitted we were artists, let's end it with a bang, let's face either total victory or total defeat, let's (seemingly) give it all up at the top. All I wanted was to do it, to know I could do it, to show them I could to it, and to give it all up, it's in my pocket, I'm gone. I'm sure some robots' circuits will fry instantly, "how could he give it up?", critical system failure, "how? how? how? how? how? how?" It's simple: I run on solar power, you work to pay off the gasoline you consume to do your work. • I passed a pet store and there was this tiny little mouse running furiously at the wheel while the other mice slept. And although he is also pathetic, the one-up he has on the robot is that he has no illusions of freedom, and yet his fulfillment is real rather than an implanted silicon forgery.
Final note: zero sales, body burning, apathetic towards my apathy.