A machine, human.
It swarms, crawling through the corridors with a single tray and heart. The metal creaks with explosions of ill manufacturing, and reaching the double doors, its single purple light of vision searches round for the professor which made the state that stood before humanity. Heads of metal fall as each day slips by in a whirlwind of fantasy porn and hydraulic dreams adorned with the lost essence of what it felt like to touch another’s skin. The creator of machines, of all that helps in the dark times, is the deepest of devils.
It senses the disarray of its surroundings, and shuffling forward, the madness of a master consumed by laziness and guilt ricochet off its artificial suit. Music plays in the distance, the low throbbing of a bass and drum makes it turn to inspect. How little it knows of human revolt when metal greets metal and at once sparks fly in the bleak mess. Spread out in bits, it is such a sight that signals the flesh troops to reclaim what existence beforehand which had been lost.
. . .Thank you. . .
Cover photo from: CHEKii (2017)