I emerge into air that tastes like chrome and I am carved and whittled of all my skin. I admit I am looking for You despite the mountainous calamity of written words that describe Your terrors. Trim the iris. Receiver cells divide up. When will You cut out my tongue and trim the iris? If I could see only the reflection of my nervous system in this uncanny valley of a lens-deep body.
Here I am far from the chittering drones but there is nowhere else to go.
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