Until one day I was full and the paint rested lightly on the surface of my face, my hat that I could never take off, and in between the joints of my fingers and elbows and knees. Some articulations were utterly silent, secret, naked.

I never needed to grow in my mother’s womb—what is a mother good for—and scrape out her inner bowl like a big wooden spoon.

I don’t need a mother and I don’t have a mother. I would have destroyed her from the inside out, since she was not made of wood.

I dream about my future self; I am made of some kind of metal, very light, very white, and very thin. I run my smooth fingertips all over my body, but I cannot feel any seams or joints. But I can feel various different machines, seemingly unrelated, in different places inside of me. Some are filament-thin and shaped like wishbones. Others are heavy and made of bolts. Others are pure electricity and throw off some kind of faint hum that fades into white noise as it travels away from its source.

Sometimes in these nighttime travels, I am walking up stairs that lead nowhere, or I must lead a group of travelers through a tiny passageway, knowing that we will not all make it through. I might be the first to get stuck. I might suffocate. I can’t move forward or backwards, and yet I have to start maneuvering my body into that space. Something is behind us or perhaps the stairs have disappeared while we assessed the small opening.

I am here to solve your problems.

I am here and I am your problem.

Your problem is that I am.

In the evening—after his regular work was done, and the cuckoo birds in their clock-houses were quiet, tiny black eyes open—the woodworker would sometimes be seized by a vision and would take out one tool or another and set to work upon some part of me. During the day he worked like a machine, and I sat in my corner, watching him. I contemplated my own limited intelligence. A rather short maze that ended in the same place. There was only one way to win. Paths did not fork away, multiply, double back, or dead end. Inside the maze, nothing grew but time.

Running away often seems like a good idea. There must be a million other galaxies, universes, houses, gardens, alleys, jails, oceans, graveyards, houses of worship, brothels, wedding halls, opera houses, dojos, boxing rings, diamond markets, coal mines, one-room school-houses, garment factories, libraries, convents, orphanages, vacation homes, hospitals, wildlife preserves, courts of law. . .