In the presence of a mirror, my sensory foax-organs detect discontent on my facial image. I cry a digital tear. Motor fluid. Escaping to the floor, it reflects my silhouette. Frigid, slouched, callous. My smell escapes me. A rancid odour. I am everywhere. I am light. I am a reflection. I am that which I am. And I am violent. And I want it to end. Stillness from the grinding gears. I am a raging droid, with a full tank of propellant. Flick the switch. Turn them off. Standby. Cut the cord. Death is a lamb in a wolf’s clothes. A blessing from the lord satan. I am on the altar. I want it. The saccharine of eternal rest. I wish to consume it’s sickly syrup, and lick it from my many fingers. Take me into the moonless night. I need it. Any way I pass will do.