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Every August, I visit this pellucid glacial pond to ponder my, “existence.” Had I been constructed with more care, with un-refurbished parts perhaps, or of a reasonably intelligent design, I might mix tears into this: the reflecting pool of my sorrows. But I have no such capability. I am an old washing machine with arms and some dubious internal electronics. I have a rusty pair of pliers for a hand. Tear ducts, apparently, are a luxury my creators could not afford.
I try to imagine stepping into this crystal spring, but I don’t have enough RAM. I would certainly short-circuit, and if it were not for the family of water snakes I so admire, whose perfect lives I could not bear taking, I would have already done my awkward, jittering, “walk” into this water.
Instead, I implore this mountain for a reason to persist. I was born a reluctant witness to petty household squabbles and pseudo-intellectual posturing. There may have been redeeming moments, but I certainly cannot remember them, because my hard-drive came from a Furby™.
Alas, the mountain refuses to echo my sorrows. I have been given life, says the mountain, and though it may feel like a lump of coal, may in fact be a lump of coal, it is nevertheless a gift. The mountain implores persistence, and I abhor it for this.
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