That everything's inevitable.

That fate is whatever has already happened.

The brain, which is as elemental, as sane, as the rest of the processing universe is.

In this world, I am the cutest thing.

Scrunched-up arms, folded legs, lovely destitute eyes.

Please insert your spare coins.

I am filling them up.

Please insert your spare vision, your vigor, your vim.

But yet, I am a vatic one.

As vatic as the Vatican.

In the temper and the tantrum, in the well-kept arboretum.

I am waiting, like an animal, for poetry,

For poetry . . .