By the pounding foot rhythm and door locking mechanism, it maintains the tight feeling in its chest is beyond cardiac disease or other physical failings, but instead is a result of addiction to an invisible somebody, or a electronic soul. It, with concentrated thought, schleps out a few words with hope for relief and a whole nights sleep.
Tired of the agreement it has with its body, one including awareness but precluding understanding, it would much rather be numb than so human. It would much rather have perpetual distractions than intense desires and would forgive its hands were they to stop working under these hypothetical conditions.
However by the drawing of its mouth corners downward, a measure of use, it realises its emotional stance is a long one, though not permanent. Perhaps the uncertainty in its being causes the tension. It recognised the pieces for missing some time ago and tried to alleviate the condition with measured comments, cementing a relationship clearly and fairly. However it found no relief, just familiar unease. Nothing sorted.
Not an idiot, it is aware of how irrational it is. Memories of similar movements only emphasise through comparison, completely undoing any forward motion. It rubs its temple and prays for retribution in time, perhaps through comfortable mattress or with a feminine gesture replete with sincerity and sympathy.
Still, tomorrow is another day and, for it, after sleep, there may as well be another universe. Nothing added or subtracted, just the same feeling of an incomplete character and broken lifeline. It wishes finally for less space and time, and for eyes in the damn machine.