carbon ovenbird You came within inches of killing him, that child on the road, his bicycle small to match the small pistons of his legs which pumped the pedals and propelled him from the curb into the street, where the towering bumper of your pickup truck soared over his head, and the wheels that were an extension of your will nearly flattened his body. You hit the breaks just in time and I jumped from the truck and you followed, nonchalant in a way no one should be nonchalant after such a close brush with death. The child was unharmed, but distressed, and you scooped him into your arms and pulled from your pocket a mechanical pencil which you swiftly plunged into the boy’s neck. His eyes became whirlpools of pained surprise. Horror rose into my throat. Nothing made sense–the truck, your unconcerned face, the black stain of graphite, like a bruise, below the boy’s left ear. His mother came to take him away and I turned on you. Why? I demanded. Why would you do such a thing? You said you were talking to an AI agent. It informed you of the health benefits of pencil punctures. You were administering a prophylactic dose of carbon. Some cursory research carried out on my phone revealed the source of this information to be a disgraced homeopathic grifter, but you shrugged when I told you you’d been duped. You didn’t care. I threw the mechanical pencil at your feet and I took my rage and ran. I didn’t intend to come back. Once I thought I knew you, but those days were over. You were a stranger with a mouth full of lead. 260818 what's it to you? who go blather from