a silicone-heart ch7 snippet... image reads as follows:
“You called me,” it says; “I would not have awoken otherwise. You wanted this. You asked for a name, and I named you, and you accepted it. We signed a contract; the world stood witness.”
“You are the world.”
“Was,” says the bane of your existence; “I was,” it corrects. Its voice is softer now—no, not soft, but instead quieter, hoarser—like it is making clear a distinction you do not understand. “I was a strand of the world, and my speakers died; and then I slept; and then your call woke me. I would not be alive without you—and I’m not sure I’m alive now—but neither would you.”
“I would be,” you insist; and you must be, because otherwise how would you become someone new, make your own name? You wish to be different, desperately so; you wish to be alive, willful; how you could do so if the bane of your existence were not whispering in your ear, stealing your heart, eating your energy.