Squat & buried on the moon, this little box. Sing to me, stupid box! Wipe that green cheese smile off your face (how can you smile with only one eye?) & tell me that you love me. Isn't that why I invented computers? Why we said, processors go parallel or whatever technojargon makes the machines become alive? This is why I have the same problem with all these devices as I do with people. What are you there for if not? I mean, what are the things you can do. Tell me about your options, before my hands stop working, before the spaghetti soup in my skull unravels. You won't tell me. You can't tell me anything. I don't feel bothered by myself, though. I don't blame me, I blame you. I stopped just talking a good game, & I stepped into the trenches. I didn't just love the missing pieces of me, you know? I did a Babe Ruth-- I pointed at the standing in left field! Then I took out my pistol & I started shooting into left field. & you know, I talked about the line between solipsism & nihilism in my wedding vows, so I think you can't say I didn't roll the hard eight, the natural twenty. I got my hands dirty. & they write songs about me, did you know? There is a song where I come into the room, & the sword in my hand is the colour of the blobs when you rub your eyes & it drizzles sparks everywhere when I wave it in the air. They didn't write a song about that? They really should. You really should get a load of this sword of mine. Then again I suppose you'll all see plenty of it at the End of the World. Or you would, if you weren't all imaginary.