I imagine act three will be when I’m an old man in a nursing home, oxygen tank at my side. The robot assistant pushes me in my hover-chair down a hallway for a late-night stroll through the halls, when after a flash of lightning on an otherwise clear and moonlit night, the silhouette of a figure, standing on one toe, other leg bent to the side, music box music playing, starts to spin. It spins and spins as the robot pushes me closer and closer, until, with one quick flick of the spinning leg, the doll, now only having half a face, kicks loose the hose to the tank. I look back at the robot as I gasp for air, but its uncaring red eyes only stare back at me as I collapse to the floor, slowing suffocating while a twisted, dancing dolls spins circles above my fading vision.
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