[Orientation lecture by Grid Farmer Perry]

[format: Sing-a-long]

You have earned my pity.
Toiling at a day rate,
your body data-pregnant,
pica makes you want to eat soil.

Deplore the world falling short
of your native conception.
Use your teeth to pry apart
bricks of Lego, but where you come from,
Lego is plastic, and soil is unclean.

What a backwards world,
glad I'm not of it.
Those among you fancy that that life is improved
by random variation,
by statistical aberration.
How quaint, their concept of texture.
Busy their minds enough to trance,
and they may, for another day,
elude the simplest statements of what is.
Remind me:
what it is like to live in a world
where chaos must be adored,
or else life stops?

I can sow life in Lego,
and this soil carries no bad afflictions:
Plastic is a real plastic where I'm from, meaning: having the power to grant form.
the plastic building block, here, is not a tool for teaching children
the frustrated rules of human artifice,
but an atom of ether,
a medium that carries waves of information
from inception to destination,
resonating and interfering along the way.
Pure, perfect, and yet still warm.

Your dirt is a scourge in this place,
the meat of an immature organic fertility
propagated by those who wrongly
believe plastic is not enough.

You would like it here.
You leave desperate teethmarks wherever you go,
but not I.
Come with me.