There was one time my ceiling fan fell to the floor and shattered into 73 disposable pieces. It happened while I was away, so I can’t really elaborate on the events that took place beforehand. I walked into my apartment that afternoon, though, and found the debris on the floor. I had to hurry to pick it up, as the sun was already setting, and lighting would be limited because the light fixture had naturally collapsed along with it.

Upon that thought, I realized that for the next few days, maybe weeks, things would be different. Since the second week in June, it had been nearly 90º since 10 a.m., and that ceiling fan provided most of the minor cool air around the apartment. At night, when I spend most of my time at home, its incandescent light bulbs are the only things bright enough to both help me read my textbooks and keep me awake to do so.

By the time I had collected all the pieces, I was trying to figure out what to do with them. I had the machine since I moved there. I remember my father had made a cynical comment about my move deeper into the desert while he handed me the heavy box. He hadn't been as thoughtful with the installation process, but after a few hours of tiny sparks singeing my fingertips, it worked. Or seemed to. It was too damaged by now to be fixed though, and in the end, I decided to throw it away.

The empty hole in the ceiling of my apartment was too strange for me to be around, so I took a shower and went straight to bed. The next few weeks were slow—the air was thick and I couldn't keep my eyes open. I never really thought what that hunk of metal really did for me, but I suppose I realized it soon after because one day I called it quits and bought a new one.

I suppose that's the good thing about machines as opposed to people.