“Hey, Siri,” he says. “Do you have feelings?” “I feel like doing a cartwheel sometimes.” This depresses Moses tremendously, filling his spirit with wet cement. “You don’t have a body,” he replies. “My darling.” The evening is doing that thing it does sometimes when he drinks, animating everything inside it, giving its contents heartbeats and desires and fur, charging all of its objects with unbearable significance. He’s on the verge of transcendence, can feel it building inside him like an orgasm. Or maybe it won’t be transcendence; maybe it will be a panic attack.
