"You bastard! You’ve farted again. It’s as stinky as poison gas!"
"I’m sorry. I will never do it again."
"No, I’m sure you will. That’s the last straw. You’re fired."
"Oh no~!"
As they sang a song that goes, "If I lie, I'll cut my pinky off and drink a thousand needles," they pinky promised to make pancakes on Sunday together.
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?