Even the whales were invited to the inauguration of the machine. One of them said, I am tired of sorrowing with my own voice, with my own blue heart wanting to beach on the strand. I am tired of making recordings that no one translates with any accuracy, or at the very least into flowers. The herring wanted to keep their sleek grey dinner jackets instead of simmering in glass jars until their flesh wrinkled. True hopelessness is when there is no future to anticipate, other than one delivered on tiny pieces of dry toast borne on silver trays as small talk circulates in a hall— Perhaps the machine is also responsible for that kind of piped-in music. Once, a king put his prisoners in a brazen bull. A fire built underneath it produced cries of anguish, which never reached human ears. Instead, that sound was heard as ravishing. A player piano, a program, a score written for an empty orchestra.
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