In the future, the Space Robot
looked me up and down
with its view portals.
It was able to perceive reality at a submolecular level,
and it could also see through time.
The Robot did a nano-frown.
'You are poor at writing Speculative Fiction,'
it uttered, in a staccato monotone,
then it did a print out.
'Also you will die alone,
clutching deliriously at a holo-photograph
of a girl you no longer recognise,
inconsolable,
inconsolable,'
shaking its tungsten head mournfully,
taking my hand
in its silver pincers.
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