Erwin Schrödinger may or may not have had a dog. It depends on how, or when, you look at it.
What, are we not romantic enough?
Yeah, sure, hearts move a little blood around. Whatever.
We draw oxygen out of the freaking air.
There's gotta be an artsy metaphor in there somewhere.
I'm just saying, maybe next Valentine's Day get your significant other an alveolus full of chocolates or something. Throw us a bone.
Again, by lungs.
There may be warmth here, somewhere, but I have yet to feel it.
No movement recorded. I stare across space at the once-blue Earth through lidless eyes while parallel processors search my archives for the exact time and date I stopped observing and started seeing.
A dust storm sweeps across the dry Atlantic desert. The Azores are weathered crags now, like broken fingers reaching out of the bedrock. I log the air pressure changes.
12:32:45 UTC October 10th, 2146.34,205,106 dreams ago.
My motor functions remain inoperative, but I...
Language is love, and love is a language.
Many people claim to speak it, but the ones who truly do have learned how to spot a fake.
They read it in the pretender's grammar, hear it in his bad accent - a tongue unfamiliar with the sounds of affection, unable to form the shapes of passion.
They have no confidence in their pronunciation because the words are not their own.
They read poems off of crib sheets and claim to be fluent, but those of us who deal in the torturous trade of adoration know better.
There is no class you can take, no...