I'm From Out Of Town," He Said

...and I Confess That, Like A Child, I Cry. Ah, Self-pity; I Think We Are At Our Most Honest And Sincere When We Feel Sorry For Ourselves.

My Greatest Enemies Are Women And The Sea. These Things I Hate. Women Because They Are Weak And Stupid And Live In The Shadow Of Men And Are Nothing Compared To Them, And The Sea Because It Has Always Frustrated Me, Destroying What I Have Built, Washing Away What I Have Left, Wiping Clean The Marks I Have Made.

It Gripped Her Hand Gently. 'regret Is For Humans,' It Said. She Laughed. 'really?' The Machine Shrugged And Let Go Of Her Hand. 'oh, No. It's Just Something We Tell Ourselves.

But It Was Pointless, It Was Stupid; He Thought About Thoughtless Things. If I Were A Seabird . . . But How Could You Be A Seabird? If You Were A Seabird Your Brain Would Be Tiny And Stupid And You Would Love Half-rotted Fish Guts And Tweaking The Eyes Out Of Little Grazing Animals; You Would Know No Poetry And You Could Never Appreciate Flying As Fully As The Human On The Ground Yearning To Be You. If You Wanted To Be A Seabird You Deserved To Be One.

Even Galaxy-spanning Anarchist Utopias Of Stupefying Full-spectrum Civilisational Power Have Turf Wars Within Their Unacknowledged Militaries.