Successive slidings of pleasure I touch myself and with bloodied fingers I make strawberries

A painted steel vending chassis. Internal temperature constant. Coils rotate. The intake slot accepts the weight of copper. Beneath the dispenser tray, motionless white fur. Two albino eyes. Twin optics of fixed glass. An artificial ruby pulse under fluorescent light.

Four doors unlatched into void.The dashboard terminal remains dark. Faint audio escapes the interior frequencies. Interval. Interval. The hazard lights record a scarlet stain on the asphalt.

I realize the strawberries are still warm.

I don’t know why.

I don't know where I put them.

I don’t remember picking them.