The bars long since closed when the shouting begins down the street Open the fucking door and all my old selves leap to their feet sick with adrenaline rushing to the point of convergence where things go bad. With repetitive force the voice assumes a switched-on hydraulic quality a monotony allowing other aspects to intrude the spring night at its coolest just before dawn smell of sea fog and late-blooming lilac air like the air of a memoir and in the morning a neighbour comments you’d think there was a war on. There’s a war on. Or is this just another Friday in an ongoing Easter of blame and remorse you in your dark house down the street creeping through the hallway with your phone which lights up begins to ring and your destiny on the threshold knocking. Indeed. Pounding.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence