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<title>Ex machina | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">Ex machina</h1>
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<a href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2013/08/sugar/cohen-text" class="external">with lines from National Geographic</a>
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<p>Bottom of the drink: they had<br />to go. The Coke machine, the snack<br />machine, the deep fryer. Hoisted</p>
<p>and dragged through the halls<br />and out to the curb, they sat with<br />other trash beneath gray, forlorn</p>
<p>skies behind the elementary<br />school, wondering what their next<br />move would be. The Coke machine</p>
<p>had always wanted to live<br />the life of a <a href="prelude.html">hobo</a>, jumping trains,<br />eating from garbage, making fire</p>
<p>in old oil drums. It had some<br />strange romantic notions of being homeless,<br />is what the deep fryer thought.</p>
<p>Its opinion was to head to court,<br />sue the bastards at the school for early<br />termination of contract. It was</p>
<p>the embodiment of <a href="table_contents.html">justifiable anger</a>.<br />It believed privately that it was an incarnation<br />of Nemesis, the goddess of divine</p>
<p>retribution. What the snack machine<br />thought, it kept to itself, but it did say<br />that <a href="no-nothing.html">nothing ever ends</a>. The others</p>
<p>were confused, then angry, but finally<br />understood, or thought they did. The snack<br />machine’s candy melted in the sun.</p>
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