A century and ten years

quasimodo. The android picks up the last remnants of a flower gone wrong, there is no catch in this, there are no fish, there is no water, but that's cool. Cause it just is.

In the laboratory there are are no rules my young friends, here we cook meat for pleasure in a dry unearthly state, constantly contradicting, asphyxiating on a lack of oxygen. But still we remain with a sense of purpose and understanding, let us call this understanding Shyam Sunder. Pretty evening. A century and ten years later from the year 1900 I greet you, with an androidal sense of purpose and belonging in quasilogical world, I hope you're with me minions. And i hope the roses don't fall empty in this newest of years.

Greetings.