There is a whole forest of tree machines in central Maine that have been programmed to turn on me. I’m certain of it. When I am absolutely silent, I can hear them plotting. It sounds like a gentle wind. There hasn’t been a moon for 3 weeks and I think they got to it. It had been moving through their limbs like a ghost, making shadows. Let me remind you: these are not real trees. They have learned to make other tree machines, and they have completely surrounded my ranch style home. It is now a log cabin. Sometimes they call me on the phone and whisper things. Give us the man suit, Carlos. Just give us the man suit.
