Tiny plastic robot, lit from insideby the dim glow of twin LEDsbehind blank eyes, its stickered decalsalready peeling away – meaningless arrays, dials fixed at ten,gapless grilles of imitation steel,Clipart screws holding nothingtight to nothing – the only textures
He says there will be fire. Tongues of fire raining down from heaven. He says this into a microphone – nearly spitting – while pacing the same stretch of stained carpet. I am ten
Gill sat in his rolling leather chair and leaned against his sturdy desk late in the night; perhaps early in the morning would be a more accurate assertion. The sun had long since ebbed beneath the horizon, and Gill’s
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