"Shut up," she cut him sharply off. "Just shut up." 
"You'll be out of here by morning." 
He grunted, "And you'll be looking for a replacement." 
The door creaked, the main artery, an awakening into blue and green. 
He told himself over and over that she just had too much nature in her,
and he reminded himself, "There are no techniques, no protocols, for what we're seeing."

Your intelligence should tell you it is already too late to disable the mechanism.
We're now bootstraps. We're not top notch.
I examined what I had left of her closely, turned it over,  
automatically manoeuvring it about my palms, mumbling
"Ignore, please, the question of blame," all the while
undergoing that inevitable and restless tumble into art or dream. 

"I will not serve. I will not serve." This instant is my ruin. 
And so from now I take life easily in my complete absence of vision. 


For Eliot, Joyce and Zahn.

First published here.