Wires, born from a small black box with two blinking lights like eyes, slithered up and attached themselves to my skin. And when a button was pressed it would call out in shrill tones, wait for some minutes and call out once more. This thing, this machine, this parasite stuck, remained, held tightly before time bade me pull it free and send it back from whence it came.
It left a residue, then a mark. A mark still pasted to my skin, an off colouring. A claim.
It left a residue, then a mark. A mark still pasted to my skin, an off colouring. A claim.
