I did not know how to play the game when I was a child, and still don’t. I don’t know how to be human. I thought I’d somehow learned with time and devoted imitation, but then I discovered that I lacked one fundamental trait: love. Nonetheless, I’ve managed to stumble into other people’s paths and walk by their side as though riding a roller coaster, my chest pounding dizzy with dreams. Were my feelings back then real or was it yet another simulacrum for me to feign normalcy? I’ll never know—I don’t think I’ll try again, lest they find out what I really am: a hollow soul. An island. A horrible amorphous formation of dry rocks where no lost bird would ever want to land. I was banished into this cave in order to prevent more people from getting hurt, and yet I’ve slashed a few curious passersby with claws I’ve never been able to locate on my body. I watch them bleed to death and I don’t understand what’s going on, I don’t understand the warm liquid splattered on my face. Every new presence is a menace. I’m not afraid of them but of what’ll happen to them if they come any closer. Now you’re looking at me with that compassionate face, confident that your infinite mercy will bring change to this mess. You’re not the first but I do wish you were the last. I’ve heard “I don’t bite” all too many times. I know full well that you don’t, but I do. If I were you I’d run away. Now run. Run.

Isn’t Life Funny?

And by funny I mean it’s been telling us some awful joke that’s turned everybody silent and’s frozen spoons mid-flight. Party’s over. Good luck staring at your shoes.

The Automated Girl of Your Dreams

Today I woke up to find the sky painted a pleasant pastel blue. In days like this one would want to go out and soak up the sun, but autumn mornings are filled with smoke and my lungs are a bit delicate, so no can do. I don’t know how people survive here with all the slash-and-burn sort of thing going on. It’s quite awful, I tell you. You know? I had taken up jogging at sunrise some time ago but had to quit because it was getting impossible to breathe, let alone run. It’s such a shame.

So how are you doing? Fine? I’m doing fantastic.

(Sadness? Anger? Me? Oh, puh-lease!)


We were going to be friends. I was absolutely sure about that. I was going to teach him songs. I was going to go visit his father and play with him instead. I was going to write a book that he might have liked. A book about llamas. He was going to think of me as weird yet cool. One day he would trust me enough to ask me a question. Any question would be fine. Twenty years from now, I was going to call his father on the phone and say “I told you.”

Now that the deluge has turned dreams into debris, I think I should still keep my promise, even if slightly different. Twenty years from now, I am going to call his father on the phone and say “I’m still here.”