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Rated: E · Fiction · Fantasy · #2150488
The perpetual grinding of the gears is what makes life possible.
Steam lazily floats skyward from the frozen machine as it churns out its hypnotic rhythm into the night. The energy released offers comfort and ease of mind. Making the bad thoughts slither away in shame.

It is not known how long the machine has been there, or who designed it, the convoluted fables lack reference. Inquisition ceased many harvest moons ago, leaving curiosity ignored.

Meaningless in retrospect really, answers are unnecessary for what is given freely. Left alone in glorious isolation, driven with mad intensity to fulfill what is glorious destiny.

The machine asks for nothing, serving purposefully, as expected.

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