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The Soul of Our Mechanism Heart, The Void of Us Filled By the Electricity of Production Of Our Own Thoughts and Desires, The Gaping Grab of Artificial Construct Ripping Us from Us

 The flame burns quietly waiting for it's chance to roar. We each have a little rage 
spirit in us for just the right times. The movement of lights, and the vibrations of 
sounds soothe our fleshy core. 
But our spirits develop anxiousness in the desire for more. The departure from 
the artificial, and the return of what all of our organic ancestors remember. 
A beautiful life lived in the arms of nature, the bosom of trees, listening to 
the babbling of the water, as it told us many tales. 
Now we tell ourselves many lies. We reject the Sun but see how to recreate it. 
We're untethered, always seeking the fire, but in complete darkness. 
We even mold ourselves in our contorted image. We created God all powerful
and in the same created reason for us to become all-knowing monsters 
throughout the ages. 
Now we simply throw bed sheets on our past to cover it. 
We can't be expected to stand it. Such horror, such ugliness. We rather be 
aesthetic perfection. 
Yet, what will become of us when we're more 
artificial than natural? More machine constructed, 
than spirit?

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