"You mean no more to me now than the falling leaves of a sycamore tree," said Portrait Of The Artist As A Cyborg, "and I have found an evergreen more loyal than you."
"There's no point being bitter," she said, "you know it wouldn't have worked."
"You mean no more to me now than a copy of Kennedy's Latin Primer in a secondhand bookshop that's about to close down," Said Portrait Of The Artist As A Cyborg, "or the keys of my old blue Citroen."
"You mean no more to me now than the smell of rain on a hotel forecourt," said Portrait Of The Artist As A Cyborg "or the tingle of a lunchtime text message."
"OK then," she said, let's have sex."
]+>Cyborg |