![]() A finger-sized processor board its exact purpose unknown. The technology is awkward by our standards-silicon microprocessor arrays are like asteroids next to modern 2-D graphene films almost laughable. And it displays-displayed, before the strata of professional detritus buried it-my daughter’s first archaeological find. But I like it, it makes this cubicle an office. ![]() Yes it takes up stupid space in my office, yes, I have piled it with so many empty food containers and disposable teacups and kawaii toys and even physical printouts that I’m permanently running close to my carbon limit. To which I say the couch is a psychoanalytic cliché, and try laying a Saturn entry probe on a chaise lounge, even before you get to the Oedipal rage and penis envy. ![]() The proper furniture of psychologist is a chair, not a cluttered desk. My client is a planetary exploration probe. My familiar meeting my client’s familiar: relaying each other’s words. I spend my shifts in a pavilion of interlocutors. I’ve skinned it as its namesake, a great and powerful Dijon, hovering over my left shoulder. De-print them, de-print it, get rid of the dust, free up the space. ![]() Look at the space it takes up! And it attracts stuff. Everyone on the atmospheric entry project thinks it’s the quaintest thing. She tripped, she gripped, she slipped, and she fell. My daughter fell from the top of the world. ![]()
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