“You know very well that’s not where we are in the process of the process, if that’s where we are in the process, Roy” the robot said, having finally resurfaced to the reality plane for air it didn’t need to breathe, but that came across as fresh

¶ –despite the Clean Heat tinged atmosphere proximate the apartment kitchen, for all intents and molecular pyrolysis outgassed purposes, not really being so–

all the same, the foreign instance of the azalea blossom it found having spurred the robot to Roy’s peculiar

¶ –for a man–

penchant for flower arranging and jarring it to wrangle a ‘Force Stop’ on all considerations being lent the Paradox

¶ –and its corresponding swath of effervescing, effluvious effluent...

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