The screen I gaze into is vantablack. Something smells of a shadow. Something tells me she has black earth under her fingernails. Black earth from The Dark Garden. Something in me feels her black familiar arch its back invisible in its dusty tantalum night-time. I imagine it hisses at me out of somewhere. The hairs on my arms stand on end. Something tells me the cat yawns.
The algorithms are not overworked. They are dressed to kill. They have a date. They are going to the carnival.