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In a secluded room at IRL, a collection of androids is stored and maintained: his hardest workers.

Arranged in this space today, with its blackout curtains, thin corporate carpeting, and shelves cluttered with cables and monitors and an array of wigs, is a pair of his replicas of grown women. The name is a play off (Latin for “twin”), a reminder that their human counterparts exist somewhere in the world.

This isolation is not complete—I have my close friends, a wider circle of less-close friends, my family—but it is the absence of intimacy. This absence has been, in part, a choice; certain men have always been curious about me.

Even he must admit that the robot is not entirely believable.

In one of these industrial boxes, about 30 students and assistant professors work in a series of near-­silent computer pods and observation rooms.

I am 13 months into a period of spending long stints in a small town in upstate New York for the sake of productive quiet.

I’m readying a book to go to the printers—work that, for me, is all-consuming and necessary.

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