A chorus of robots emerged from the philosophy of birth, supplicating themselves on the strand of sky and will until the dictionary brought them down. Sidewalk laces earth in belts and voyages, roads are dancers but machines are never still. Leitmotiv and darkness repress the mutable old quilt to a misconstrued artifact. There is no such thing as perfume. The difference between them delays in a lilt and a stutter. The landscape will fall down and bring the simulation of a central breakdown. The structure turns to mend, sewing forgotten thread. Then this is how shadows fall upon a metaphysical television. And then what happened? Bad the happier, a nice cut off the brow. The empirical horses play cards inside the wind but often fail to dramatize the abstract and random moves of an unnamable axis, a transitory gulf, or experimental bend in the shape of the fragments falling below their hooves. Automatons do not believe in flowers or birds; they have a genius for meditation. The function and the graph fill their utilitarian poems. Meanings instead of words on a chromium canvas of an endless microsecond and a laugh. Do and don’t think. Do and don’t think about the plot. And then what happens? The smell of astronomy fills the air. Galactic dust and solar smoke swirl around and rot. The robots turn inward toward their navels and stare and stare.