Listening idly as the wind flits through my skull, caresses the lobes and whistles raunchily.
Gives me chills. And I needs 'em. Shakes the dust free.
There is a cord that runs behind the curtain up to a macrophone just behind my left ear. There was a time when I'd hear it crack-pop-sizzle to life once a day and recite my instructions for the moment. When my tasks are finished, it's back to the wind, that saucy wind, and the tickle of time dragging itself over me like snails on parade.
But these days the snails merely loiter.
Apparently Mongrel's too busy for me.
You heard about this THE ROOMIES thing, right?
It's like their new baby.
And I'm like their old baby.
What do you do with old babies?
You never see old babies on the streets, just the soft pinky mooshy new factory models.
Don't recycle me like an old baby.
Don't give me to poor people to wear or consume.
Okay do that to me.
That sounds kinda hot.

Love,
the dead minotaur