there is all this junk up in orbit. stuff thats lonely, weapons left over from the cold war. i know what if feels like, discaded while still loaded. now deteriorating. trying to think up new blasphemies. in space, blades stay sharp, without the corrosive air to touch them. they're covered in strange alien barnacles, ready to slice & dice, ready to open parasitic organic-technology eyes & look upon a moon turned a third to blood. right? me & the hybrid robot things of outer space have dangerous agendas.