i. it is too early for most people. despite the encroaching morning, lights are on—new york claims the title, but most cities never sleep.
ii. she smiles at you from under the neon sign as you blink away the abrupt roar of a car. people rarely stick around, but you hope she will.
iii. the sounds are bright like knives, the lights are sharp like the smell of a cheese shop.
iv. a robot is a robot, they tell you, and nothing more.
v. she doesn't embrace you; there are things even she does not try.
vi. you've grown to hate the city, but you cannot leave. you've never left; it'll kill you.
vii. she tells you she loves you. she tells you she knows you can't love, even if you insist you can.
viii. why does a robot need to blink away the sounds?
ix. you want to see the sea. you want to see the forest and the wide, wide plains. you want to climb a mountain. sometimes you're jealous of your cousins who can, but perhaps they long for the business and beauty of the city.
x. you love her, but you know she doesn't love you.