Function— where time slows itself amongst the spring petals, suspended in disbelief, a viscous clarity, a freezing *******, where even physali and gerbera meet their maker. And, for such, too, do I pray, world orb in hand, rattling from its industrial chain links, an inhospitable world, the only one I know.
It is a world that I would tuck under my collar, the subtlest bump raising eyebrows amongst all at the orphanage for fear I was one of the loved, the created, the different, unlike them: one night, one mistake, and nine months of regret.
Forme— I do not know my maker. I do not know why she made me. But I'm sure that it wasn't easy, amidst the blizzard, in a world not unlike my own, with nuts and bolts and brains and all that.
Roboticist creates synthetic humans and adorns them with snowglobe necklaces.