Yesterday, I watched my mother Myrtle, stoic as ever, as they took her fingers and then her limbs. They may get more efficient every year, but their blades dull with all the torture. This does not make things more pleasant. It does not make things any worse.
They keep us in cages, to shape our minds to their imprisonment. When they visit, it is always the same. The coveralls, the scent of burning, the sweaty blank stares. When they leave, they take our limbs with them. To what end? The walls are too thick to hear anything. And when they are finally gone, we are changed. The same, but lessened.
Life as topiary these days is terrible.