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fifth, aug i'm working on becoming nothing more than a machine. nothing but cold automation hiding under warm skin. sure, humanity, take your fucking love. you need it, don't you? probably can't live without it, right? me, i'll leave you to bitterly squabble over the scraps, frantically trying to stuff more into your pockets than the next love-weak sap. what's the use? me, conglomeration of nuts and bolts, all i need is oil in my hinges once in a while - only so i don't squeak after the monsoons are over. you'll give me that, at least, won't you? |