And anything would be better than this lying in waiting, like a goddamn lioness, stalking those goddamn wildebeests and waiting as the sun turned from pink to gold to orange to black for its raw, weathered friends to disperse that she might make her fangs familiar with the fleshy folds of its withering neck and feel the satisfying SNAP of it’s little spine shattering, shattering like the pieces of my mind and OH! I’m going to waste, going to waste, I’m not even worth the freaking lion or the sun or the wildebeest, in fact I’m no more than a useless blade of grass, crushed by the cruel talons of the mechanical wildebeest killer, because that’s all I am, just a goddamn machine trying to so hard to calculate you but it’s difficult, difficult, difficult and I keep getting stuck with the input/output ratio, probably because I never really understood the question after all, but I all these thoughts in the African sun make me quiver as—the wildebeest fall to the earth, dust, and I weep for my lost meal. And anything better than this.