philip sherburne

Ada, I want to have your babies. We will name them "Lovelace" and "And More" -- strange names for offspring, I know, but they seem so fitting -- and usher them into the chirping world, where we will place them in nests made of copper wires and spun silicon, beneath azure skies where pan pipes coo in the distance and the carnival buzz of the next village over is a soundtrack of neverending promise and merriment, and every regurgitated worm is a globule of pure pulsing tone, and the winds are made of every harmonic of the spectrum falling perfectly into its pre-arranged place, and our babies' wings will whistle as they glide far, far out into the impossible horizon.

Oh, I see -- you've already done this, exactly this, without my help at all; Areal 19 is their school portrait, spinning black and glossy on my turntable, its reflective surface a fool's pond for Narcissus musings like this. Silly me, I got carried away. Thank god for records and their plastic, partial custody.