The only thing that makes sense is the sun. It comes. You, some three khz tone flight-frights you from REM to beta to alpha. Cognition up, locomotion down. You frown, and shuffle transversely. Fourteen times feet fall and catch carpeted two by fours, two by fours from shelves from machines from trees from so far away.
A bottleneck, a trigger, then electromagnetic saturation. You juggle your center of mass while gathering. No hunting, just gathering -- the cow, the beans, the grain, the thiamin hydrochloride, all long dead. For a while, starting now, they will travel with you. Not that you are traveling; at this moment you are still, becoming one with the plumbing. Synthetic sweat runs down exterior capillaries. You break the water circuit, sponge, and choose new neighbors for your skin. (Your pants, I fear, can not evaluate counterfactuals, else they would wish you thin.) Twelve more half jumpings down fabric shock absorbers. When will you regain this lost potential?
Your hand thrusts and writhes, and the metals intercourse. Again, the sun. Your abode's microclimate briefly mingles with the great ocean of air outside. Photons Rayleigh-scatter above, then rain down on your hair. A controlled chaos of half-stumblings causes the wormpaths of you and your metal egg to intersect.
More metallic fucking. What an alloyed harem you have at your fingertips! The egg cracks, allowing you to enter, then reseals. Explosions. Many many little explosions. This is not an egg, it is a rocket. Bonds break, pulleys shake, and all the while entropy leaks. In your rocket, you fly down concrete streams to rivers to tributaries. The sun inches through arcminutes before you land in a concrete pond where many metal egg-rockets are docked.
A giant steel-glass honeycomb .. this must be the hive. You and the other workers return with briefcases of pollen. You enter the hive and weights and counter-weights lift you to your cave. You dance. Perhaps this dance is a code, which the other workers read so that they too may obtain briefcases of pollen. Perhaps you are worshiping the brown liquid of boiled seed-pods. Perhaps it is just a random walk (true to the two dimensional theory you return and return again to your starting location). Perhaps it is just a way to rub your pollen on to the other workers, and to collect their pollen. Pollen, pollen, pollen: pollen from machines, pollen from computer screens.
There are many dances before you return to the concrete pond. The sun has passed you by, and is low in the sky. You race towards it, but eventually despair and land gently at your abode. Breaking the bonds of thousands of molecules of ATP you regain your lost gravitational potential (and all the while entropy leaks). Radio waves heat dead cow, dead wheat, just for energy from which to move your feet. Other radio waves give phosphorus its marching orders, and indirectly heat your brain.
Again, again the sun. Projected a conic across the sky, and now it is done. Still sweats fire while you curl. Still tugs space-time while your lungs slow. Stationary while your world does a twirl.
Why can you not be more like the sun?