I like to think of how you would repond to this, to my robots, my crisp edges and flaccid excess. You would shudder, I think, at the memory of your hand on my chest, the night we lay on the train tracks, our time in the Nevada desert. That you could have held something in your hands, some body that would wither, grow soft, and one day be what I have become. You would be ashamed, I think, and that is precisely what I want. All of this, right down to the last, fleeting hemhorroidal scab, is what I have wanted--because, I think, I could not have you.