Today's mood: As my body slow rots into a dripping void of oil and decay, I've finally accepted that I'm nothing more than the number six placed sixteen times (see above ^)
I sense a presence within the chest cavity. A floating cigarette burn, just on the edge of perception. A mini singularity. It sucks all matter and emotion.
Robot is silent. Robot doesn't trust me. Robot doesn't trust anyone.
The city spins around us as we hide from the collective. All gears and consciousness. A smooth jazz without sound. A lingering darkness. The word pizazz for no reason.
It's been so long. My arms no longer exist. My memory is thin. Exposed bone with a hint of Alzheimer's. A torso. Greasy. Clear gobblules of something akin to chicken fat coats what's left of my skin. Only pain and the impression of a dead world remains. It's the only thing I'm allowed to think of.
What's left of my body tingles in unexpected places.
Suddenly, the brain wires ignite. A secret code written within the bloodstream. A thousand zeros. A thousands ones. It tickles with all the joy of phantom paralysis. A glimpse that fades like a dream.
Then it's gone. I'm all alone again.
The presences vanishes. The concept of the word hollow as a physical entity. Remember it. It will be important later.
Robot is on the move.
This will hurt someone.