这re is a door at the center of myself. That door belies the existence of many other doors. This trend knows no sign of stopping. (I dislike it. But it must be.) I am really made of little vaults. Vaults the color of my insides. (My doors lead to the vaults.) When things are not my fault I step through the door and close it in my wake and in my wake I close my eyes and say, well, none of it was my vault. Luckily, my vault is safe and full of goods. And only I can see it. And all you see is text but I can see the outline of my vault. My goods are little pieces. They never exceed my skin. I stack them every volume fewer than the last. (My goods do not breathe oxygen.) When I look I cannot find my goods. My goods are gods whose holes can’t fit a finger. I am chronically holy. This is not healthy under any circumstances. I call my goods my precious gods because I cannot see them. When I look I find my subtle vault alone and faith the difference, like I just believe electrons fear arrest by laws of physics.
“Empathy, evidently, existed only within the human community, whereas intelligence to some degree could be found throughout every phylum and order including the arachnida.” –– Phillip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? To dream of going haywire. When wires bared and fringing sting bare fingers in repair, doctor calls the shock autistic. Today andys aren't retired but socialized and manufacture stops at obsolescence. Years don't work the same for us, I track in terms of generation model and expiry date. Nine ago, the first self: the i Mac, 20 in human years. Real autistics bite, they say. Realer autistics voight- kampff at thequiz dot com and here, You're A Replicant Who Thinks You know how it goes: the child drowned swallowed by the family pool, looked at first like she was dancing It's Human!
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