black chevrolet

counting yarn, counting bits of yarn one after another, laying red bits of yarn in a row touching end to end.  This is what people in psychiatric wards do to waste time, you know.  Red bits of yarn turn to green bits of grass, green slime begins to pour up my arm, and my fingers wrap about the impeller blades like rubber bands in a Dali painting.  May God have mercy on my patience lest it die a gentle death....

Start, damn you, START!  There's fuel, I just cleaned out the air filter, the belts are not broken, it's not overheated anymore there is no reason why this should not be running no reason why none absolutely none it knows me and hates me it knows I exist machines are conscious they know we exist and they have organized to spite us the creature turns against his creator in a fit of impotent juvenile wrath and suffering....laughable in its narrowminded selfishness....mourning the loss of a bird.  We have no sense of our own worth, and let that be a lesson, a reminder to calmly bury pride.