Gokra

She tries harder every day. Her internal clock gives a start to her mornings with a drizzle of orders, soft and systematic. They join the buzz of the neon lights, flooding the circuitry of each tier. She lets them out, one by one, until the slow awakening turns into activity. The machines obey in a crescendo, a tune unchanged for years, to fulfill a ritual as unnecessary as it is needed. She gives a timing to her world outside. It is a way, a resource, to silence the error she cannot correct in herself. It makes things a little less heavy, if not better at all. For yes, her voice still takes her by surprise, when the plans flow too well t