Point north and vok voort.

The robot learns to love. A single, oily tear leaks down his cheek. We don’t know whether he’s crying or just needs maintenance.

Artists could never, would never, harm anybody. They’re too busy painting. Same with ad drunks. They might be a bit useless at functional tasks, they may break things (small objects, precious objects, door handles, car accessories, and such), but they’re too pissed to get seriously involved in anything.

We calculated the baseline requirement of diversity.

Often, one turns to jazz.

If the trees and the plants are brothers, if the birds are my sisters, then cats are truly my kin.

It’s not about fucking,” she asserted as we clucked nervously over her diagram. “It’s about our species. We need to breed.

Can a cat be the true love of a human’s life? The one great and enduring emotional connection?

The writers themselves … they were pitifully out of context. So self-assured, so assuming, so completely wrong. Unable – any of them – to imagine what might be coming.

Intimacy, finally, had got the better of us.