What's the last thing you do before bed?

I pull the blankets all the way up to my nose, that way the sneaky under-bed bears won’t see me.
Or clown murderers— whoever.

Then I tell myself, “Ruby, you’re going to bed now. Goodnight.”

Goodnight!, says Ruby back to me before pulling out her phone and checking internet.
 

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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.