For the time being call me Home. All the ingénues do. Units are the engines I understand best. One betrayal, two. Merrily, merrily, merrily. Define hope. Machine. Define machine. Nope. Like thoughts, the geniuses race through. If you're lucky after a number of revolutions, you'll feel something catch.
From Sad Little Breathing Machine by Matthea Harvey. Copyright © 2004 by Matthea Harvey. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota. All rights reserved.