>I dreamed I saw the beloved Nandroid of my childhood, the replacement source of maternal love my mother, with her struggles, could not provide for me, sitting by the bank of a swimming pool, that was also a river. In real life, she had been a victim of Clanker's Rot (A contamination of the semi-viscous gloop contained within the Nandroid's head that allows the capacity of human level cognition), and had regressed, before her prompt shut-down and scrappage, to an erratic, semi-conscious state. In the dream, as well, she had lost her capacity for self-control. Her barbie-doll reminiscent genital region was exposed, dimly; there was the appearance of a thick, silvery mound of kitchen scourer. She was stroking herself, absentmindedly, her iconic caramel pony-tail now released and flowing freely down to her thin, smooth waist. She shuffled over to me, the sound of limb motors whirring, compensating her unstable gait, with an outstretched wiry handful of this cleaning apparatus, compacted into something resembling a large artist’s paint-brush. She pushed this at my face. I raised my arm, several times, to deflect her hand; finally, unwilling to hurt her, or interfere with her any further, I let her have her way. She stroked my face with the brush, gently, and said, like a child, “isn’t it scratchy?” I looked at her blank face plate and said, “yes, Nanny, it’s scratchy.”