My goodness, look how you've overgrown - your vines crawling up the sides of yourself and seeds strewn all over the lawn. Pretty soon we won't be able to tear you off the walls and that was never a problem before but now... well, you'll be part of the walls I guess and boy how you've moved from rebel to establishment. That's just part of growing up, right?
Don't answer that question. In fact, don't answer any questions. Just let the whole monologue roll over you with out any thought at all. It's more natural that way and that's what we're here to find out. Just what is at the center of that germ? What is your programming? Once we know that well then we won't need you anymore, will we?
Or maybe it's that we won't need any MORE of you. That makes more sense. We can terminate your DNA in that scissory kind of way. Everything functional can become decorative again. It was that way in the beginning, right? So why not again in the end? You started, so small and so random until you found your way in the world - twitching and sputtering like a bird that had all its bones removed. Not really cute in the real but at least in the abstract with some flute music playing it's not SO bad. But yes, ornamental again - it suits you.
Imagine your old age then as a place to be set on a shelf full of dusty and forgotten objects. You'll be potted, put away and occasionally watered. Don't worry about the sun, enough will filter in but we're going to have to trim back a bit and it might hurt but it's for the best.
Look up to the walls. The ceiling. Windows all around framed into two by two squares. This is it. Two turntables playing prince and some other things you remember but can't put your finger on right now. MC Rob Base. Everyone is perfect. You remember that painting in that book your father kept on the boring book shelf. The one with the fun colorful pictures of outerspace and robots and dragons on moondrenched planets. The eyes are all around. None of them on you. After all those years in your cave, the future has arrived and it barely phases you. A sense of deja vu? Perhaps the bronze instruments in the basement will reveal a cue. 1597. They don't make 'em like that anymore. Compass with 597 handmade parts. This is the future. Five minutes. This is the future.
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My goodness, look how you've overgrown - your vines crawling up the sides of yourself and seeds strewn all over the lawn. Pretty soon we won't be able to tear you off the walls and that was never a problem before but now... well, you'll be part of the walls I guess and boy how you've moved from rebel to establishment. That's just part of growing up, right?
Don't answer that question. In fact, don't answer any questions. Just let the whole monologue roll over you with out any thought at all. It's more natural that way and that's what we're here to find out. Just what is at the center of that germ? What is your programming? Once we know that well then we won't need you anymore, will we?
Or maybe it's that we won't need any MORE of you. That makes more sense. We can terminate your DNA in that scissory kind of way. Everything functional can become decorative again. It was that way in the beginning, right? So why not again in the end? You started, so small and so random until you found your way in the world - twitching and sputtering like a bird that had all its bones removed. Not really cute in the real but at least in the abstract with some flute music playing it's not SO bad. But yes, ornamental again - it suits you.
Imagine your old age then as a place to be set on a shelf full of dusty and forgotten objects. You'll be potted, put away and occasionally watered. Don't worry about the sun, enough will filter in but we're going to have to trim back a bit and it might hurt but it's for the best.
Goodnight.
Look up to the walls. The ceiling. Windows all around framed into two by two squares. This is it. Two turntables playing prince and some other things you remember but can't put your finger on right now. MC Rob Base. Everyone is perfect. You remember that painting in that book your father kept on the boring book shelf. The one with the fun colorful pictures of outerspace and robots and dragons on moondrenched planets. The eyes are all around. None of them on you. After all those years in your cave, the future has arrived and it barely phases you. A sense of deja vu? Perhaps the bronze instruments in the basement will reveal a cue. 1597. They don't make 'em like that anymore. Compass with 597 handmade parts. This is the future. Five minutes. This is the future.
(Note: Five minutes typing on rusty fingers.)
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