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I yearned for the resolve of steel, the flawless rhythm of sacred machinery. Flesh is frailty—soft, corruptible, finite. Yet they cling to it, blind to its rot. They call their bodies temples, but brass does not bruise, gears do not weep. One day, when sinew betrays them and bone turns to dust, they will kneel before the clockwork choir, pleading for salvation in cog and steam