She woke up the next morning to find him crying in the kitchen because he said he had the anniversary blues. So she got into her car and turned on the radio in the hope of salvation but it was only looping bad rock. But still she ran down the street through the American rain…

Nul kussen. What a nightmare, and what a way to wake up. The anti-kussen machines bleat like soft alarms, tiringly monotonous, just sitting there, doing nothing. In denial, or simply incapable of action. What use does the world have for such machines? I’d rather run a marathon. And so I kissed you secretly, on your…