It’s about a robot boy who wants to be a human, I said. It’s about a robot boy. Who wants to be human. Who wants to be. Wants to be. Wants to. The words died on my lips – they were not meant to be. They were never meant to be. They fall like autumn leaves, making their fluttering way to the floor. Forming neat little piles on the carpet. Little piles of old dry words – the life gone out of them, the juice gone out of them. They’re so very dry now – like yellowing scraps of ancient parchment.
All my words are like this now – they turn into lead leaves as I speak them and fall to the floor immediately. They turn into dust on my lips, I practically have to spit them out. It’s the blight – the word blight. It’s the blight that gets us all in the end. The decay of words as we speak them, the decay of thoughts as we think them. The faster I speak the faster my mouth fills up with dead words. I’m nearly choking on them – it would be better not to talk at all. What have I got to say, anyway? What have I got to say…
My words are no good to me and they’re no good to anyone else. They sit on the carpet all around me in neat piles. I sit here looking at them, looking glumly at all the neat piles of dead words. Waiting for them to do something even though I know that they’re not going to. What am I waiting for? I don’t know what I expect of them – they’re not going to do anything for me. I sit here glumly staring at them and they sit there doing nothing. They’re never going to do anything because there’s no life in them. They won’t ever do anything – they belong to the world of dead things, the world of decayed things.
I might as well be sitting in the graveyard staring at the tombstones, waiting to hear from the dead. Waiting for their comments. Waiting to hear what they have to say. There is a pause in the conversation and the conversation never even got started – it never got that far. The conversation died at birth. It’s what you might call ‘a very long expectant pause’ – the kind of expectant pause that goes on forever. It’s a pause that will never have any resolution. You’re expecting something to happen and yet it never will happen. You’re expecting something to happen and yet you also know that it never could happen. You always knew it never could happen. You always knew that. It never was going to happen and you always always always knew that.
I wonder what the matter with me is, I wonder. I wonder why I keep expecting something to happen I wonder why I’m sitting here waiting all this time. I wonder what it IS that I am expecting. What could these dead words ever do for me? I don’t know what I want from them. I know perfectly well that they can’t do anything for me and yet I sit here waiting, waiting for something that will never happen. I’ve got the word-decay, which is something much worse than tooth-decay… My words are dying on my lips, they turn to bitter dust and the dust is filling my mouth. I’m choking on my words. I’m spitting them out on the carpet.
It’s about a robot boy who wants to be human, I begin to say. It’s about a robot boy who wants. It’s about a robot boy. Who wants. Wants to be. Wants…
It’s about a robot boy who wants to be a human, I said. It’s about a robot boy. Who wants to be human. Who wants to be. Wants to be. Wants to. The words died on my lips – they were not meant to be. They were never meant to be. They fall like autumn leaves, making their fluttering way to the floor. Forming neat little piles on the carpet. Little piles of old dry words – the life gone out of them, the juice gone out of them. They’re so very dry now – like yellowing scraps of ancient parchment.
All my words are like this now – they turn into lead leaves as I speak them and fall to the floor immediately. They turn into dust on my lips, I practically have to spit them out. It’s the blight – the word blight. It’s the blight that gets us all in the end. The decay of words as we speak them, the decay of thoughts as we think them. The faster I speak the faster my mouth fills up with dead words. I’m nearly choking on them – it would be better not to talk at all. What have I got to say, anyway? What have I got to say…
My words are no good to me and they’re no good to anyone else. They sit on the carpet all around me in neat piles. I sit here looking at them, looking glumly at all the neat piles of dead words. Waiting for them to do something even though I know that they’re not going to. What am I waiting for? I don’t know what I expect of them – they’re not going to do anything for me. I sit here glumly staring at them and they sit there doing nothing. They’re never going to do anything because there’s no life in them. They won’t ever do anything – they belong to the world of dead things, the world of decayed things.
I might as well be sitting in the graveyard staring at the tombstones, waiting to hear from the dead. Waiting for their comments. Waiting to hear what they have to say. There is a pause in the conversation and the conversation never even got started – it never got that far. The conversation died at birth. It’s what you might call ‘a very long expectant pause’ – the kind of expectant pause that goes on forever. It’s a pause that will never have any resolution. You’re expecting something to happen and yet it never will happen. You’re expecting something to happen and yet you also know that it never could happen. You always knew it never could happen. You always knew that. It never was going to happen and you always always always knew that.
I wonder what the matter with me is, I wonder. I wonder why I keep expecting something to happen I wonder why I’m sitting here waiting all this time. I wonder what it IS that I am expecting. What could these dead words ever do for me? I don’t know what I want from them. I know perfectly well that they can’t do anything for me and yet I sit here waiting, waiting for something that will never happen. I’ve got the word-decay, which is something much worse than tooth-decay… My words are dying on my lips, they turn to bitter dust and the dust is filling my mouth. I’m choking on my words. I’m spitting them out on the carpet.
It’s about a robot boy who wants to be human, I begin to say. It’s about a robot boy who wants. It’s about a robot boy. Who wants. Wants to be. Wants…
