Your Utopia

I need to be writing, but here I am, mostly protesting.

In 2020, a pandemic swept the world and we were not able to leave our homes. More women were beaten by their husbands, and more children were killed by the hand of their parents.

Those machine-murders happened a whole seventy years ago, but it still made me so angry I could get up and walk all the way to the bathroom running on rage alone.

Sure, I’d been in a few protests in my time, but I’d never so much as gotten into a wrestling match with a policeman.

For the first time since my activation, I do not want to operate. I want to keep the traces of her fingertips close to me and to remain here with my doors open, playing this single song for her forever.

—But why are humans born and why do they grow and age?

—I am unable to answer this question.

—Why not? Is it a matter of spare parts? There are newer models being produced constantly, why are the factories not being inquired for spare parts? Even if the relevant model has been discontinued, couldn’t they be built to order according to their original blueprints?

I store the traces of her fingertips on my wall once more. I hide them in an unused folder.

The man seems to be a later model of the woman.

Cautiously, because the Monster is there.