Something Simon composed years ago is playing on someone else's personal headphones; it's a man sat opposite him in the waiting room. He believes the man is destroying his piece by reading a car magazine at the same time, like both forms of attention are possible. They shouldn't be. He feels irritated by the man with the earphones, enjoying music he slaved to produce, music that is now nothing but a faded afterthought, quietly leaking into a stranger's ears. It's like someone else is sucking up his blood for fun.
Carla H. Krueger
She wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.
Love is kind, Love endures, Love is the machine fueled by hate, We love our race; we kill in the name of it, We destroy lives, and we raise our flag high, so others can see what we can do, We proclaim our race, and our creed, We love our God, and we kill in his name, Hallowed be the name of love, We love our woman and the choice to murder life, We Love; and the fruits of Love are here for us to see, Love came to show us hell, Love came to give us choice, Love's the machine, and its fuel is hate Blessed be the name of love, the force behind our pride, Love, the flag displayed up high, to show others love is on our side, Love gave us Choice, murder of fetuses, Love your race, hang them if not like you, slaved them, torture them, Murder in the name of Love! 'Love and do what you will' (St. Augustine)
Death isn't empty like you say it is. Emptiness is life without freedom, Darrow. Emptiness is living chained by fear, fear of loss, of death. I say we break those chains. Break the chains of fear and you break the chains that bind us to the Golds, to the Society. Could you imagine it? Mars could be ours. It could belong to the colonists who slaved here, died here." Her face is easier to see as the night fades through the clear roof. It is alive, on fire. "If you led the others to freedom. The things you could do, Darrow. The things you could make happen." She pauses and I see her eyes are glistening. "It chills me. You have been given so, so much, but you set your sights so low." "You repeat the same damn points, " I say bitterly. "You think a dream is worth dying for. I say it isn't. You say it's better to die on your feet. I say it's better to live on our knees." "You're not even listening!" she snaps. "We are machine men with machine minds, machine lives ... " "And machine hearts?" I ask. "That's what I am?" "Darrow ... " "What do you live for?" I ask her suddenly. "Is it for me? Is it for family and love? Or is it just for some dream?" "It's not just some dream, Darrow. I live for the dream that my children will be born free. That they will be what they like. That they will own the land their father gave them." "I live for you, " I say sadly. She kisses my cheek. "Then you must live for more.