feedwhat to love
They were singing. You knew they were singing because their mouths were open. That's how obvious it could be. Whenever their mouths were open, they were surely singing. Lovely. Wondering sounds. When will you feed us? When will we see Papa? And we answered as best we could, then fed them mother's milk, then put them down in a warmdark room. Those three little girls. All three of them singing. We shared all the things we owned. Even these songs. But for some it was too much. "You can't do that," they said. "You can't share the vibrations of the air, the theoretical stored binary whangdoodles. It belongs to you only for your use. You musn't share." We left our door unlocked, and if you cared to, you could come inside and borrow from us. So long as we got it back in the same condition, so long as you didn't steal from us, then it didn't seem like there should be anything wrong with what we were doing. There was nothing wrong with it. And you can say differently. But look at them sleeping. If I do not share this experience with you, how will you know what to love?
