Mad scientist sits at his desk.
Tries to decide which building to face east and whish west. Allergic to the hive, the hive is giving him hives.
He's an ant architect, a meteorologist of moods swings and other things which shouldn't be measured.
If the brain is the engine and the heart is the carburetor, and the legs are made of rubber and the spine is made of pipe cleaners we can build our own people in any way we choose.
We can push our own buttons like adolescent gods.
We can bask in the glows of the new synthetic sun.
The casket you know as the most comfortable one.
We can suture the future shut like a cut.
We can build epic structures.
Copulate and populate.
We can suture the future shut like a cute.
We can replicate structures which replicate us.
Deaf - mute in a leisure suit who, try as he might, fails nightly.
Fails miserably.
Buys a colony from the back of a magazine, plays simulated city with real living things.
His fear of death is intense as he crushes the ants.
But there's a freedom there: there's no one to apologize to. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor.
