I am a being of black blood and snow sheets of fragile flesh; like all my kin,

There are many of us and yet so few, compared to those of rose blood and peach coverings,

Those of sound and movment, clear and hard to see, but beautiful to hear,

Those with blood of numbers and hard skin of graphite,

Those with blood of acid and flesh of metal, but not.

Little is written on me and little has been taken.

For my kin give up what they wish to be seen,

And keep close what they wish not to be.

The oldest have skin turned gray and black,

And are willow thin,

from all that they have kept and given.

My kin do not die.

We can't.

It is not in our nature to be forgotten,

To fade in to nothingness like the others,

For some one always remebers,

No matter how old we become.

So cut me,

and spill fresh black blood on new skin.

Go on, do it.

For no one every forgets a good story.<s/i>