Psychoanalysts say that writers bury frustrations under words, but don’t solve them. I suppose, when one wanders into this little page, I seem to be the most extremely frustrated human being.
“Do you enjoy being the only human being amongst robots?”
“Oui. I love the fact that I can bend my legs.”
Everyone plays in the streets. A punk teenager. An old man with his blue folk guitare. Everyone plays in the streets.
Eveyrone, in the streets.
When I was young I pretended to be a robot. How I wanted shiny armour over my face, how I wanted collapsible feet with rockets underneath.
The success of the polls have tipped. Contrary to popular belief, I find it amazing, being human.
