In the Robot museum there are heads under glass. There are wires and mesh and silver and fingers that once tried to choke a wind pipe. There are eyeballs rolling around in a glass bowl. There is a whole armoire of batteries.   Cords hang from Gallery # 3 in droves, like white and gray intestines.

There are circuits, hinges, and arms in the gift shop. We know nothing of unfeeling parts that hang from the sky and sit on ice and are pushed and prodded and beep beep bopped over until something turns on, a button is pressed, a voice box recognizes, you, and says, just come home, come home to this place where we need you. Turn us on. Turn us out. Never stop.  

No, stop, that’s too much.