I dream of being a robot in Labrador City, cleaning the floors of a wooden house, mining ore at the pit, clearing snow from my driveway, plugging in, plugging out.
Most people dislike the term but I have a nostalgia, old-fashioned and green, for the automatic, unconscious execution of tasks. Hands and eyes sense dirty dishes, rubbish to be taken out, clothes to be washed. How beautiful to be a machine!
Who says robots have no imagination!
I dream of being a robot in Labrador City: clock out of the mine, my day is done. I go to the bar, order a beer—the same greeting, the same beer. Like the music of an organ grinder, I dream of being a robot in Labrador City. The mines pump out moonlight. The day is a white freezer. The night is a black freezer. I sleep and wake to programme. I know my task. Such dreams I have while I work! Such happiness in surrendering to repeating numbers! I dream of being a robot in Labrador City. I am one of many dreams. The others are already real. Go to line one.