"What was that?"
A cry went out.
"I can't quite tell. Be quiet now."
The noise came in on little robot's feet, dancing and striding through a knife-grey mist.
"Can you get a closer look?"
A sigh went out.
"I can almost get a glimpse."
The noise came in and never left, a token of a robot's path.
A crooked path, perhaps.
But a path there none-the-less. A path and life of cheese-sticks, poon, and Asian women.
"Is it still there?"
A plea went out.
"I still cannot tell."
The noise came in on little robot's feet.
And is the noise still there?
If anything, we know, it is
just
a
robot
and
his
bitches.
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2 comments:
A breathtaking journey into the raw, dramatic world of robot bitches. In this rare fusion of intellectual ambition and emotional urgency, you expose the emptiness of a science that avoids the ultimate questions. Robot Winston Churchill simply cannot be ignored as its meaning--as it surely will--becomes more and more central to our very existence.
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