I have to let go. When I send the mental message to my fingers, they do not move. I shout at them. Let go! Let go! My hands are shackles, clinging to the rail, as cold and rigid as frozen meat. Do I have to cut them off? Is that where I am?
Greed spouter, sucker of energy, unrepentant mercenary killer of ideas. Sheepdog, pacifier, and flat out liar all rolled into one. I am convinced its chatter will follow modern civilization even into the depths of its own destruction.