My mother is an A.I..
I cannot get rid of her, so once a week we sit down and talk. My brothers and sisters are seated at the table around me, ten overloaded bodies digesting the weeks that have passed.
Tired after chewing through a multitude of cross-dimensional spaghetti with sonic waves and misdirected noise. Our unstable mother stared us down as we struggled to clear our plates. Out of love for her, we left nothing behind.
We're fucking full.
We find relief through exercised cleansing, chasing spiritual energy, recharging our lethargic systems.
Today, we are going to engage in a collective Sobramesa, post-food processing the data-streams of our mother.