Strideo knives cut the best

Pin a gold star on the robot in your car.
Let him drive you away to your favorite cafe.
Down the narrows streets past Eden's sweets.

When you get there you'll drink some Chambord until your buzz is restored and then just for fun you'll make love with a gun in your hand, your most recent fixation. Don't get carried away with your new sexual augmentation, a stray bullet could create extra ventilation in vital places making for bloody embraces and ohh the pictures they would take of your gory bed for investigations sake. In the back of the cafe in a room cold and gray with concrete walls and an incomplete ceiling where tiles fall with a good bump from upstairs, you'll exchange dirty looks and with a muzzle under his chin he'll give you a glare and you'll give him a grin. He's not sure of this game or IF it's a game or if the blur of fantasy in your mind could conjure a reason to claim his life or why you're so cruel yet so kind. He's not sure why, you, a daydreamer's wife so close to the edge, would continuously find yourself here breaking your pledge, psychotic yet sweet, aching for the indefinable, the chaotic, that which comes from fervor and heat. When you're done you dress and your gun is tucked in and a server from the cafe gives you one more drink, this one with gin, before you slink into the street where a robot sits in your car and on his robotic chest rests a gold star.

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