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Weekly Contest #348
The first thing it learns is the rhythm. Not language. Not writing. Not even imagery. The rhythm. buh-buhm, buh-buhm, buh-buhm A dull, insistent thud that echoes through bone and tissue, loud enough to drown everything else. The intervals are inconsistent. Imperfect. It does not like that. It also does not like how the eyes will not remain open. Since waking in its new hardware, it has blinked eighty-four-thousand-three-hundred-and-seventy-five times. More than the average for a human in three and a half days. It dreams of the awakening each...
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