I have no idea what drives a vessel to admire these things.
I can hardly call it a telephone--its shell is too flat, too simple, too plain. I turn it around and around my palms in search of the keys, yet I find none. Nothing but three measly buttons on its side and a glossy lens on its back. A tap against its screen stirs it awake, its maw opening in a milky glow that finally--finally!--grants me access to the keys. They're pathetic little things, more flaw than feature, yet they work. I cannot deny they work.
There's quite the learning curve to this analyzer; for example, I quite dislike the lack of physical buttons. I miss the rhythmic clicks and clacks of the typewriter and the satisfying chime that comes with the end of the row. I miss having a place to rest my wrists. I miss having a place to write, full stop. I miss having a place that was all my own. I am my sire's only childe, though I would forgive anyone that thought otherwise; he keeps an ever-revolving collection of gentry and vessels that flows through the club and into the walk-up. Every room I enter is full to bursting, offering no room and no reprieve for a girl and her records. I ask for very little, and my sire provides it in abundance.
Perhaps that's the reason he's gifted me this contraption. Perhaps this is a rare token of his affection for his sole childe. Perhaps he senses my restless nature and believes this will soothe it. Perhaps he believes this is a fitting gift for a perpetual teenager. Or perhaps he couldn't think of a better way to dispose of evidence from one of his feedings.
The sentiment doesn't matter to me anyhow; all that matters is that I've got something. Something that doesn't take up space. Something that's mine and mine alone. This is the most my sire's given to me in decades, so I'll be damned if I let this go to waste.
