If the message had been generated by the OS it would mean one thing, but the message had come across the IM client and he wasn’t sure what to make of it, but it was succinct: “Fatal Error.”
She diced the carrots and added them to the stew, not that anyone would notice, not on a conscious level, but it was her art and it was the art that mattered.
Ju always made fresh juice in the morning, part of the routine, grab the fruit, check the fridge for tomorrow’s fruit, then ten, twenty seconds of the mechanical chaos as the juicer beat the fruit into submission, but the juice as it flowed down his throat that he never took for granted, that was never routine.
Simply, he was a legend.
On the south side of town, on a side street next to the Volvo repair shop, in some zoning hic-cup, The Spot survived, a joint that, to survive, had to survive on the down low.