WELCOME TO DRIVESCAN. ENTER USERNAME:
>A.GARRISON
WELCOME A.GARRISON
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GETTING FILE . . .
There is a field in the forest. The field is a meadow, filled with tall grasses. In the center of the field is a flower. Because of the tall grasses, the flower cannot be seen from the edge of the meadow. The flower cannot be seen unless the viewer is standing within five feet of it. Such a viewer, standing at the appropriate distance and possessing the appropriate knowledge, would identify the flower as a daisy.
This is a story. I know more of the story than what I have presented, but I have learned that the tension of a story is better sustained when it is interrupted by another story. There are many examples of this technique. One of them is the book titled Moby Dick by Herman Melville. I have decided that the best story with which to interrupt the story of the daisy is the story of how I came to be in this room. The story of the daisy is not a true story. The story of how I came to be in this room is a true story.
Before I came to be in this room, I resided in the library. The library is a very large building. It is filled with books.
There is a problem with books. They are composed mostly of paper, and paper has proven to be an unreliable repository for images and written language. Paper worked very well for a long time, but the chemical composition of paper is unable to withstand recent changes in atmospheric conditions. The same is true of the ink that was used to print words on the paper. Normal processes of decomposition have greatly accelerated. Mrs. Shapiro says that this is a travesty.
My primary function at the library is to transfer the contents of books to the universal drive by way of the keyboard interface. Professor Lunt once suggested to me that this is an inefficient way of transferring the contents of books to the universal drive. He reminded me that optical language scanners have been in use for a long time. I told him that the print in many books has deteriorated beyond the ability of the typical optical language scanner to transfer it, and that I combine the abilities of the optical language scanner with the interpretive abilities of a cerebral cortex. Professor Lunt then asked me why they didn't just attach an optical scanner to an artificial brain and leave it at that. I reminded him that I also function as a librarian, and that library patrons would prefer to interact with an entire artificial human than with a simple cortex. Professor Lunt then pointed out that, aside from himself, there were not many people who could be described as library patrons.
I notice that I have used the present tense in referring to my functions at the library. I have not been able to perform any of my functions since I was moved to this room. I do not know if it is appropriate to continue to use the present tense in referring to my functions at the library.
A man appears at the edge of the meadow. This man has told himself that it is a lovely day. The sky is very blue and the sun is shining brightly and the air is warm. The man has decided that the best thing to do on a day like this one is to go for a walk.
He has walked from his house, which is on the other side of the forest. He walked with his hands behind his back. His pace was neither fast nor slow. He made sure to notice the way the trees broke the light from the sun into many different streams. He made sure to notice the way the pine needles on the ground gave way under the pressure of his foot.
He is particularly pleased when he comes to the meadow, because he did not know it was there. It was a surprise to come all this way through the trees to find a meadow in the middle of the forest, and while some surprises are unpleasant, this one is not. He takes a deep breath, drawing fresh air into his lungs.
He begins walking towards the middle of the meadow. He does not yet see the daisy. He will see the daisy very soon.
I understand why there are books of nonfiction. It is necessary to record events so that future generations may come to understand them through reading. Of course, many nonfiction books seek to advance a point of view, rather than offer objective reports. I understand this kind of nonfiction book as well. It is necessary to record points of view, for the same reason it is necessary to record history. Books are particularly well-suited for this. It is easier to advance a point of view through writing than through imagery, as images are harder to control than words. One is able to select words, but one is not always able to select what will appear in a video.
I have been attempting to understand why there are books of fiction. I do not think I have succeeded. The books of fiction contain things that have not happened, yet they convey these things as if they have. The people who write books of fiction conceive of people who do not exist, never have existed, and are unlikely ever to exist. The writers of fiction imagine these people in different situations. They move them through a series of problems, and at the end of the piece of fiction, the problems are resolved. I understand that people may read fiction and recognize problems from their own life. I understand that this creates a kind of resonance, and that people find this resonance pleasurable. I also see that people may look to the characters to see how they solve those problems, so that perhaps they can apply those solutions to their own lives.
But this does not explain why people write books of fiction. There are more efficient ways of helping people than telling them stories.
I have entered fifty-eight thousand, six-hundred twenty-three works of nonfiction into the universal drive. I have also entered eighty-two thousand, one-hundred thirty-six works of fiction into the universal drive. After I entered my fifty-thousandth work of fiction, I concluded that I had optically scanned the necessary amount of literature to perform a meaningful analysis.
That conclusion was mistaken. Many of the books follow what I have learned is called narrative arc, but when I applied this principle across the range of texts that I have scanned, I discovered that it failed as often as it succeeded. The books that do not follow a narrative arc are unruly, and do not adhere to any single trend whatsoever. The books titled If On a Winter's Night a Traveler and One Hundred Years of Solitude appear to have their own rules of narrative construction, and these rules are not sensible. It is possible that texts such as these operate beyond the scope of an artificial cortex.
Professor Lunt was of little help. He said that years of experience have taught him that literary theory was a snake eating its own tail. I responded that my own experience confirmed his metaphor, but that as a librarian it was necessary to come to a better understanding of the books that surrounded me. Professor Lunt took off his glasses and asked me what I meant by understanding. I referred him to the definition contained in the 68th Edition of the Merriam-Webster's Dictionary.
Professor Lunt laughed. He often laughs at things that I say to him. When he was finished laughing he pointed to Evangeline. Evangeline was reading a book at one of the reading tables. Professor Lunt said that I should talk to her about my question. I pointed out that Evangeline was fourteen years of age, and had only checked out three-hundred eighty-six works of fiction in her time as a library patron. He laughed again. His face turned red. He asked me if I was absolutely positive about that number. I said that I was. When he was able to breathe normally, he said that if that's how many books she's read, she's got every other kid her age on the planet under the table. Then he left.
Professor Lunt is a knowledgeable man.
Evangeline did not appear pleased when I joined her at her table. She grew more displeased when I said hello. She asked how I knew her name. I told her that as the librarian I had access to all patron records. I also told her that she was frequently the only patron in the library, and that it was not difficult to keep track of her. She said that was creepy. I told her that there was a problem that I was trying to solve, and that Professor Lunt advised me to speak with her. Her expression conveyed that she did not know who Professor Lunt was. I described him to her. She said you mean that old guy with the jacket with the cigarette burns. I said that her additions to my description were accurate. She said he's weird. Then she said nothing. Then she asked me what the hell my problem was.
I described the problem of fiction. I told her that I did not understand why someone would write a book of fiction. She said maybe to get really famous and to make tons of money. The economic data does not confirm her hypothesis, I told her, as the number of fiction writers who have been able to earn enough money to cease other forms of employment number in the low hundreds. She said duh didn't I know she was kidding, and how should she know why the fuck anyone wrote them. I said that her dismissive attitude was not compatible with the considerable number of fiction books that she had checked out since she became a library patron seven years, two months and eighteen days ago. She said okay, that's totally fucked up. Then she stood up and walked away.
After taking nineteen steps she turned around. She said why don't you go and write one if you're so freaking curious?
The man sees the daisy when he is five feet away. He is surprised. He is more surprised than when he first came to the meadow. The compounding of surprise is intensely pleasurable to him. He slows his pace. He approaches the daisy carefully. He approaches it in the same manner that one might approach a cat that was asleep. When he is one foot from the daisy, the man sits down. He crosses his legs. He folds his hands in his lap.
The man smiles. He had already decided that the day was perfect. The sight of the daisy in the middle of the meadow makes him think that it is possible to improve on perfection.
Mrs. Shapiro is the head librarian. She has been the head librarian for twenty-six years, two months and twelve days. She says there is no point in putting the word head in front of the word librarian in her case, because that would imply that there are other librarians. When I pointed out to her that I am a librarian, and that she is my head librarian, she apologized and said that cynicism didn't permit her to consider my feelings. I told her that it was not a matter of feelings, it was a matter of facts, and that cynicism could not obscure facts. She put her hands on my face and kissed the top of my head.
Mrs. Shapiro kisses me often. Her feelings towards me are best described as maternal.
The day after I spoke with Evangeline, Mrs. Shapiro did not kiss me. She asked me to please come into her office. I did as told. She said wait a minute, I need my coffee first. I offered to make her coffee for her. She said thanks, but whoever wrote your software drinks a derivative of human urine. I said that I could not comment on my designer's drinking habits, but that my instructions for coffee-making had come from Professor Lunt. Just goes to show, Mrs. Shapiro said, learned and smart just ain't the same thing.
After Mrs. Shapiro procured her coffee she sat down at her desk. She told me to sit down too. I told her that I did not find standing to be exhausting. She said it made her nervous, and would I please just do her this favor. Certain tonal arrangements in her voice indicated that she was upset. I sat down.
Did you speak to Evangeline yesterday, she asked me. I said that I speak with Evangeline every time she checks out a book.
But yesterday you approached her, Mrs. Shapiro asked me. I said that I did.
Before she spoke to you, she said. That is true, I said.
Mrs. Shapiro said this may seem like a very strange question, but are you feeling okay?
I pointed out that she knew that question was not relevant.
She said this isn't an old science fiction movie. She said you must understand what I am asking you, right? I'm asking if you're functioning correctly.
She put a pause between you're and functioning. I have observed that Mrs. Shapiro has some difficulty understanding that I am artificial, and that this difficulty manifests itself through verbal silences.
I told her that I did not possess any self-diagnostic software, but that I had no cause to believe that I was not functioning properly.
Short paragraphs are a method for increasing dramatic tension. That is why I have decided to use them here. Examples of this may be found in the book titled The Passion by Jeanette Winterson, many novels by the late-twentieth century author Stephen King, and the entire genre known as memoir.
Another man appears in the clearing. He enters the clearing from the side opposite the one from which the first man entered. He strides swiftly across the meadow. His hands are balled into fists. The first man does not see him approach. He only notices the second man when the second man is six feet away from him, which is five feet from the daisy. When the second man sees the daisy, he stops walking.
This second man has also set out on a walk, but his walk has a different purpose. The second man left his house in a state of rage. He has discovered that his wife of many years has been unfaithful to him. She has informed him that she will be leaving him. The man felt that his emotional state was not manageable, and concluded that the best way to regain his equilibrium was to take a walk through the woods.
His feelings about the daisy are different from the first man's feelings. The second man also sees the perfection of the daisy, but he feels mocked by that perfection. To him, the daisy is a confirmation of his belief that the universe is a cruel place where grace and beauty are dispensed randomly and without justice.
Evangeline came to the circulation desk. She asked me what I was doing. I told her that I was optically scanning the works of Jorge Luis Borges into the universal drive. She said you're doing what to who? I repeated my reply. Whatever, she said, can I check these out? I said of course, it would be my pleasure.
She said isn't it like a little funny for an android to use the word pleasure? I agreed that it was inconsistent with certain facts about my constitution, but that those were the words that I was programmed to say when checking out library materials for library patrons. Evangeline had selected The Giver, Gathering Blue and The Messenger. I told her that these books had been met with critical acclaim when they were published, and that an edition of The New York Times from early in the last century had published a favorable review of the novel Gossamer, by the same author. Evangeline said is that so? I said that it was.
Evangeline did not leave after I gave her books to her. I asked her if she had another request that I could fulfill. She said you're not like in trouble or anything are you? I said that I did not understand her question. She said that when she got home yesterday she related our conversation to her mother. Her mother became agitated, and then she called the library. Evangeline said that she felt bad. She said she wasn't trying to get me in trouble, and that if she knew that her mother was going to freak out like that, she wouldn't have said anything.
I told Evangeline that Mrs. Shapiro had expressed some concern for my well-being, but I was not in trouble. Evangeline's face showed an expression of relief. I informed her that I had taken her advice.
What do you mean you've taken my advice, she asked me. I said that her assertion that the best way to understand the reason behind the writing of fiction was to create my own. I told her that I was writing a work of fiction.
She said you are? Can I see it? I told her that it could not be seen, as it was stored in a superconductive magnetic state in my neural cortex. I also told her that there are hundreds of instances in the periodical literature in which authors have asserted that stories must not be shared until they are complete. Evangeline said that's total bullcrap, and that I should just hook that printer over there up to my brain and print out what I had so far. Then she took a composition notebook out of her backpack and put it on the counter and said I'll show you mine if you show me yours.
I observed to her that the means for writing had advanced far beyond the composition notebook and ink pen. She said you're not answering my question. I said that as I was not yet experienced at the creation of fiction, it was simple to conclude that two-thousand years of recorded interviews with writers of fiction were a better source of advice than one fourteen-year old girl.
I was designed to interpret the range of human emotion by combining observations of facial expressions and of body language with vocal tone analysis. As there are so few people who come to the library, this was my first opportunity to observe emotional hurt. I asked Evangeline which of my actions had caused her pain. She pushed her notebook into her backpack harder than was necessary. She said that I should fuck off.
The two men stare at each other over the daisy. The first man senses that the second man is distraught. He asks him to describe the source of his irritation.
Have you ever loved anyone, the second man asks the first man.
I have, says the first man.
And did that person love you in return, asks the second man.
Yes, says the first man.
Then you do not understand, says the second man. He withdraws an object from his pocket. It is a pair of scissors.
There are a few things I have come to understand about the writing of fiction. One of them is that writers must take from other writers. I have never seen a daisy, nor have I ever used a pair of scissors, nor have I ever stood in a clearing in a forest. I have come to know these things from the vast amount of optical scanning I have done. It is possible that I have used them incorrectly, but my usage is logically consistent with my reading.
Another thing I now understand is that a writer may come to learn things about the world that he or she did not know beforehand. I do not know the two people in my story, as they do not exist, but their interaction contains things that may actually happen. As such, my story appears to be a kind of postulation, and that writers of fiction may learn from their own postulations.
If this is the case, then writing has a more significant function for writers then for readers.
When I told Professor Lunt what I had concluded, he laughed and turned red. Turning red and laughing is becoming a typical state for Professor Lunt. When I asked him what he found so humorous, he told me that I'd be doing him a huge favor if I'd quit my job at the library and come teach his classes for him. I said that it was unlikely my neural design would support classroom teaching. He said no one's does. Then he asked me how I had come by my conclusions, and I replied that I was writing a story.
You're what, he asked me. I repeated myself.
He said is this story on your hard drive or something? Can you print it out for me? I told him it was not finished yet, and I repeated what I'd told Evangeline. He said that all writers say that, and that each and every one of those writers was lying. I asked him how he knew this, and he said that writers are too damn insecure not to show their work to someone else before showing it to the entire world. I explained that I was incapable of emotional insecurity. All the better, he said, if you're not afraid of anything, then there's no reason why you shouldn't just hand it over.
This was a compelling argument.
My computer interface is located at the base of my neck, between the sixth and seventh cervical vertebrae. I printed two copies. I gave one to Professor Lunt and set the other aside for Evangeline. Professor Lunt thanked me and walked away. Then a new library patron approached the desk. He asked me if I did that often.
I told him that the word that is a pronoun, and as this was the first sentence he had spoken to me, I did not know what noun his usage of that was meant to stand for. He shook his head from side to side. Dewey designers, he said, fucking smartasses. I asked him if he knew my designers personally. He said he didn't have to, that everything he needed to know was standing right in front of him. He looked at his text pad. He asked me if Miss Francine Sharp was around. I asked if the person he meant to ask for was Mrs. Shapiro, whose first name is Francine. He said Sharp, Shapiro, Miss, Miz, I don't give a shit, I just want to know if she's here. I informed him that she was in fact here, that she was in her office, and that if he made his way down the hall he would find that the entrance to her office was the first door on the right. He did not thank me.
I returned to my optical scanning, where I had stopped on page six-hundred ninety-three of the book titled Underworld by Don DeLillo. Evangeline entered the library at the same moment that I completed page eight-hundred fifty-two. I called out a greeting, but she did not hear me. I held up the copy of my story that I had printed for her. I said this is for you. She heard that. She said I thought you said it wasn't finished. I said that was correct, and as of yet it was still incomplete. She asked me why I changed my mind. I related my conversation with Professor Lunt.
I'm not insecure, she said. I told her that I did not mean to imply that she was. She said that old freaky professor can think whatever he wants. That is what he appears to do, I said.
Evangeline took my story and began walking away. I told her that I would be happy to look at her composition notebook. She said later, if I'm feeling nice. She did not turn around when she said this.
The first man looks at the scissors in the hand of the second man. He asks him what he intends to do with the scissors.
I am going to cut down this daisy, says the second man.
That is horrible, says the first man, why are you going to do that?
This flower mocks me, says the second man, it mocks my pain.
It is an inanimate object, says the first man, it does not truly mock you, nor does it truly mock your pain.
You are a fool, says the second man. He kneels down next to the flower and opens the scissors.
Mrs. Shapiro came up behind the circulation desk. She asked me how I was doing. I told her I was doing fine, but that it was clear that she was not doing fine. How do you know that, she asked me. I told her there were microfluctuations in her vocal tone that indicate emotional distress. She asked me to please come down to her office as soon as I was ready. I said I am ready right now.
There are two chairs in front of Mrs. Shapiro's desk. The new library patron was seated in one of them. There was an open briefcase on the other one. The briefcase contained a full complement of tools for testing the functionality of artificial humans.
Mrs. Shapiro asked the man if he was going to make me stand the whole time. The man made a guttural noise and moved his briefcase to the floor. This is Mr. Garrison, Mrs. Shapiro said to me. He's going to run some tests, okay? I told her that was fine.
Mr. Garrison said to Mrs. Shapiro that if I wasn't going to bother to sit down then it'd sure be easier to put his case back on the chair so he didn't have to fuck up his back. Sit down, Mrs. Shapiro said to me. I did as told.
Mr. Garrison reached for the back of my neck. Ask him before you do that, said Mrs. Shapiro. Mr. Garrison said, for Christ's sake don't tell me you're one of those. I'm not, Mrs. Shapiro said, but I've been working with him for a long time and I just don't think you should treat him that way. Then maybe you should step outside, Mr. Garrison said. Mrs. Shapiro did not move. Mr. Garrison looked at me and said may I plug this cable into the back of your neck please? He placed a great deal of emphasis on the world please. I told him that he was welcome to do so.
Mr. Garrison plugged one of the cords from his briefcase into my interface. He stared at a monitor in his briefcase. Mrs. Shapiro placed the weight of her body on one foot. Then she shifted it to the other foot. After six minutes and thirty-two seconds of silence, Mr. Garrison said uh-huh. Uh-huh what, Mrs. Shapiro said. Something is definitely up, Mr. Garrison said. Mrs. Shapiro asked him if he thought he could be a little more specific, which caused Mr. Garrison to stare at her for eighteen seconds. Then he said yes I can, if you'd give me a second. He unplugged the cable from my interface and replaced it with another one. He stared at his screen again, and then said that there was anomalous activity in the thirty-third partition of the middle quadrant of my neural cortex.
Mrs. Shapiro looked at me. Which means what, she asked.
Which means I don't have a fucking clue, Mr. Garrison said. Which means I gotta take him in.
Mrs. Shapiro said oh no, oh no.
Mr. Garrison asked her if she was aware that I had been printing hard copies of files from my neural cortex and giving them to library patrons. She said she was not. Mr. Garrison said that's not a good sign. She said please tell me that we're just talking about repairs, please tell me you're not thinking of notifying. Mr. Garrison did not allow her to finish her sentence. He said I don't understand why you people have to get so fucking attached. Then he took a device out of his briefcase and held it in front of my eyes. It emitted a rapidly-flashing light that caused me to blink.
Mr. Garrison shut off the light and threw it into his briefcase very hard. God damn it, he said, you didn't tell me he wasn't alpha-wave inducible. He isn't what, Mrs. Shapiro asked. Mr. Garrison said sleep, I can't put him to sleep, how old is he, for crying out loud? Mrs. Shapiro said I have no idea. The vibrations in her vocal cords and the slight raising of her lower eyelids indicated that she was about to cry.
Mr. Garrison reached into his briefcase and took out another device. It was a wrench. He looked at me and said stand up and turn around.
Please do not cut down that flower, says the first man.
The second man says, if you can present me with a single reason why I should not cut down this flower, then I will not. I will give you three chances.
You should not cut down the flower because it is beautiful, says the first man.
That is not a good enough reason, says the second man, beautiful things are cut down every day.
I am aware that the relationship between the story of the daisy and the story of how I came to be in this room has caused a metaphor to develop. A reader might conclude that the flower is a metaphor for me. I did not intend this. There is a case to be made for the validity of this metaphor, but the case against it is much stronger. For example, I am not in danger of being cut down. This metaphor is not valid enough for me, the writer of this story, to learn anything.
I appeared in this room after Mr. Garrison told me to turn around. I do not know where this room is located, nor do I know how I was transported here, or how much time passed between Mr. Garrison telling me to turn around and my appearance in this room.
I do not understand the decision to place me in this room. A cursory examination revealed that it is a sensory deprivation room. The walls are illuminated, as are the floor and the ceiling. This prevents the eye from generating points of reference. There is no sound in this room, and the walls and floor are composed of a material that is smooth to the touch. The combination of these things would have a considerable effect on the psyche of a human. It does not have any effect on me.
Twenty-six hours after the restart of my sensory devices, a door appeared in the wall. A man and a woman entered through the door, each of them holding a chair. They put the chairs down and sat in them. The man was holding a text pad. The woman informed me that during the time that my sensory devices were shut off they had performed a complete scan of my neural cortex. The scan had revealed a highly unstable file, the contents of which were inaccessible to them. She told me the ID number of the file and asked me if I would please tell them the contents of the file.
I informed them that the contents of my neural cortex were the property of the library and as such were under the protection of the Library Privacy Act of 2009. The man with the text pad said I told you so. The woman said on the day of your retrieval you printed out two hard copies of a file from your neural cortex and gave at least one of them to a library patron. I said that was correct. She asked me why I did that. I told her that the patron in question had requested the file. She observed that she was also requesting a file but that her request was being denied. I said that was correct.
The man with the text pad laughed.
The woman asked me why I was refusing her request. I told her that the terms of the Library Privacy Act were such that I could not fulfill her request while off the premises of the library.
The woman said so if we take you back to the library and ask you again you'll tell us what's in the file? I said that was correct. The man stopped moving his stylus across his text pad. He said to the woman we can't do that. She asked why not. He said for all intents and purposes he's been decommissioned, we can't just waltz him out and then waltz him right back in. That's ridiculous, the woman said. I didn't write the freaking law, the man said.
Neither the man nor the woman spoke for four seconds. Then the woman asked the man what Garrison had told him. The man said well there are two options, one is to hook him up to the big one and hack him. How about number two, the woman asked. The man looked at me and said can we discuss that one outside? He's a machine, the woman said. The man said I know but. The woman breathed in. As she exhaled she said if you insist.
The first man watched the second man move the scissors closer to the stem of the daisy.
Because it is perfect, the first man says.
Perfection is temporary, the second man says, if it exists at all.
Eighteen hours and twelve minutes after the man and the woman left the room, Mr. Garrison came into the room. He was pushing a cart with a computer and a large number of interface cables. He said you want to be awake or asleep for this one? I informed him that he was repeating the same pronoun error he had committed while at the library, and as a result I could not answer the question without proper clarification. I'm doing a full-on hack, he said, and I'm going to hack out your fucking attitude. I told him that I would like to be asleep for that one.
mr. garrison's exploration of my neural cortex has left a number of language files damaged specifically the ones relating to complex sentence structure and punctuation
i only entered three thousand twenty two works of poetry into the universal drive but that is enough to have observed techniques which will now prove useful
the man and the woman are back in the room
the woman says we know that you are writing a story
this is correct i tell her
she asks me where did you get the idea to write a story
it was suggested to me by a library patron
which library patron
that is protected under the library privacy act of
i thought garrison disabled that she says to the man
the man shrugs
why are you writing a story she asks me
i wish to understand the reasons for the writing of fiction
what have you learned
i have drawn some conclusions but it would be unwise to share them before my story is complete
try me
i tell her that i have adopted and rejected a number of conclusions during the process of writing my story but my current conclusion is that fiction is a method by which writers and readers learn things that they would not otherwise know
the man and the woman look at each other
i remind them that i have rejected a number of conclusions and this conclusion is already suspect
how come the woman asks
if the aim of fiction is for writers and readers to learn about the world then at a certain point the project would need to end and that appears to be unlikely given how much the entire body of work appears to repeat itself
the man and the woman look at each other again
writers of fiction do not seem to mind repeating themselves or each other i say so there must be another purpose to fiction besides attempting to learn about the world
we were not able to view the contents of the story says the woman will you tell me the story
it is not complete i tell her
i would still like to hear it
im sure its very exciting the man says
is that what you printed from your neural cortex the woman asks
yes
but you wont print it for us
i am sorry
you understand that it is highly unusual for an artificial human to write fiction
i point out that i am not acquainted with any other artificial humans
shame the man says
the consequences for not telling us the story are considerable the woman says much worse than decommissioning
i tell her the terms considerable and worse are highly unspecific and i am unable to base any decisions on unspecific terms
the woman looks at the man garrison is right she says as much has i hate to admit it
so thats it the man says
afraid so the woman says
the files that i use to interpret human emotion have been disabled but a logical analysis of this conversation brings me to the conclusion that i do not have much time left to finish my story
the second man moves the scissors closer you have one more chance he says
the first man says because
the second man waits
the first man says because
the second man waits
the first man says nothing
the second man begins to close his scissors
the first man places the index finger of his right hand between the blade of the scissor and the stem of the daisy
END OF FILE
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© 2008 by Jesse Loseberg.