The Robot

In theory, the robot knew that he was a robot and that robots came with finite batteries, just as the universe seems to be a seemingly infinite but finite battery. Day to day, he busied himself with his robotica: raking leaves, sweeping the soft gravel and sand into swirling patterns, washing bowls, hauling water, listening to silence, counting non-integers, memorizing the birds, blowing the flute, and printing solitary characters on white paper. The emptiness began to fill with something–an error of computing, a damaged algorithm, an incongruent eternity. It was like bleeding invisible blood. It was the empty mindfulness of the slow leaking of its energy, leaking off into the rust, copper sulfate, and tarnish of the whirling concentric whirlpools of scrap metal and unidentified minerals that were also losing their energy. The marks of time were staining the timeless. The robot was sad.

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