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The one hundred erasers that I had collected were melted by the heat and turned into one big lump.
 
While putting the edge of the blade in my neck, the guys asked me what it's like to have people fawning over me all the time.
 

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A given mission, mechanical assault, manufactured devotion.
Red eyes, an upside-down form. Even the twisted shape was made to be that way.
No matter how cruel the slaughter, worse than a demon's,
or how gentle the kindness, greater than an angel's,
a machine has neither will nor madness—only code, and a few bugs.
So why, then, does it feel so unbearably sad?
eatch wrote on Lebedev's profile.