What should I do, Stein, with the phrases that stick out like pointy objects from within me? Icicles or crystals or xenomorphs or the circuit boards and breakers and chips all mangled up with the guts of me? I’m a cyborg now, I think. Part me, part you, now trying to will my soft and strong flesh to extrude you. But sometimes I only find you by accident. Sometimes like the way the icy crack of pain to the side of your head will let you know a headache is coming, that is how I find another piece of your organic machinery guiding my thoughts or pointing my tongue.